MARGARET  HlLL  MC  GARTER 


VANGUARDS 
OF    THE    PLAINS 


I  COULD  NOT  SPEAK  THEN,   FOR  ONE   SENTENCE   WAS   RINGING  IN  MY 
EARS — "  I   WAS   ALWAYS  THINKING  OF   YOU  " 


VANGUARDS   OF 
THE  PLAINS 


A  Romance  of  the  Old  Santa  Fe  Trail 


By  MARGARET  HILL  MCCARTER 
AUTHOR  OF 

' 'The  Price  of  the  Prairie,"      "A  Wall  of  Men," 
'  'Winning  the  Wilderness, ' '     Etc. 


With  Frontispiece  in  Colors 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


VANGUARDS  OP  THE  PLAINS 


Copyright,    1917,   by   Harper  &   Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  October,   1917 

1/-B 


DEDICATION 

This  story  of  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  would 
do  honor  to  the  memory  of  those  stalwart 
men  who  defied  the  desert,  who  walked  the 
prairies  boldly,  and  who  died  bravely — van- 
guards in  the  building  of  a  firm  highway  for 
the  commerce  of  a  westward-moving  Empire. 


1824040 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

FOREWORD ix 


PART  I 
CLEARING   THE   TRAIL 

I.  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  A  PLAINSMAN 3 

II.  A  DAUGHTER  OF  CANAAN 19 

III.  THE  WIDENING  HORIZON 36 

IV.  THE  MAN  IN  THE  DARK 54 

V.  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN  FIRST 69 

VI.  SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND 85 

VII.  "SANCTUARY" 107 

VIII.  THE  WILDERNESS  CROSSROADS 129 

PART  II 
BUILDING  THE  TRAIL 

IX.  IN  THE  MOON  OF  THE  PEACH  BLOSSOM   .    .    .    .  151 

X.  THE  HANDS  THAT  CLING 169 

XI.  "OUR  FRIENDS — THE  ENEMY"       185 

XII.  THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  THE  PLAINS 206 

XIII.  IN  THE  SHELTER  OF  SAN  MIGUEL 223 

XIV.  OPENING  THE  RECORD 241 

XV.  THE  SANCTUARY  ROCKS  OF  SAN  CHRISTOBAL     .  256 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACK 

XVI.  FINISHING  TOUCHES 269 

XVII.  SWEET  AND  BITTER  WATERS     .......    290 

PART  III 
DEFENDING  THE  TRAIL 

XVIII.  WHEN  THE  SUN  WENT  DOWN 307 

XIX.  A  MAN'S  PART 326 

XX.  GONE  OUT 350 

XXI.  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  INFINITE 370 

PART   IV 
REMEMBERING  THE  TRAIL 

XXII.  THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 391 


FOREWORD 

WESTWARD,  along  the  level  prairies  of  a 
kingdom  yet  to  be,  my  memory  runs,  with 
a  clear  vision  of  the  days  when  romance  died  not 
and  strong  hearts  never  failed.  The  glamour  of 
the  plains  is  before  my  eyes;  the  tingle  of  cour- 
age, danger-born,  is  in  my  pulse-beat;  the  soft 
hand  of  love  is  touching  my  hand.  I  live  again 
the  drama  of  life  wherein  there  are  no  idle  actors, 
no  stale,  unmeaning  lines.  And  beyond  the  ac- 
tion, this  way  up  the  years,  there  runs  also  the 
forward-gazing  vision  toward  a  new  Hesperides : 

Through  the  veins 

Of  whose  vast  Empire  flows,  in  strength'ning  tides, 
Trade,  the  calm  health  of  nations. 

.     .     .    And  sometimes  I  would  doubt 

If  statesmen,  rocked  and  dandled  into  power, 

Could  leave  such  legacies  to  kings. 


I 

CLEARING   THE   TRAIL 


VANGUARDS 
OF   THE    PLAINS 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SANTA  FE  TRAIL 


THE    BEGINNINGS    OF   A   PLAINSMAN 

There  came  a  time  in  the  law  of  life 

When  over  the  nursing  sod 
The  shadows  broke,  and  the  soul  awoke 

In  a  strange,  dim  dream  of  God. 

— LANGDON  SMITH. 

IT  might  have  been  but  yesterday  that  I  saw 
it  all:  the  glinting  sunlight  on  the  yellow 
Missouri  boiling  endlessly  along  at  the  foot  of 
the  bluff;  the  flood- washed  sands  across  the  river; 
the  tangle  of  tall,  coarse  weeds  fringing  them, 
edged  by  the  scrubby  underbrush.  And  beyond 
that  the  big  trees  of  the  Missouri  woodland,  so 
level  against  the  eastern  horizon  that  I  used  to 
wonder  if  I  might  not  walk  upon  their  solid- 
looking  tops  if  I  could  only  reach  them.  I  won- 

3 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

dered,  too,  why  the  trees  on  our  side  of  the  river 
should  vary  so  in  height  when  those  in  the  east- 
ern distance  were  so  evenly  grown.  One  day  I 
had  asked  Jondo  the  reason  for  this,  and  had 
learned  that  it  was  because  of  the  level  ground 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  valley.  I  began  then 
to  love  the  level  places  of  the  earth.  I  love  them 
still.  And,  always  excepting  that  one  titanic 
rift,  where  the  world  stands  edgewise,  with  the 
sublimity  of  the  Almighty  shimmering  through 
its  far  depths,  I  love  them  more  than  any  other 
thing  that  nature  has  yet  offered  to  me. 

But  to  come  back  to  that  picture  of  yesterday: 
old  Fort  Leavenwrorth  on  the  bluff;  the  little  and 
big  ravines  that  billow  the  landscape  about  it; 
the  faint  lines  of  trails  winding  along  the  hillsides 
toward  the  southwest;  the  unclouded  skies  so 
everlastingly  big  and  intensely  blue;  and,  hang- 
ing like  a  spray  of  glorious  blossoms  flung  high 
above  me,  the  swaying  folds  of  the  wind-caressed 
flag,  now  drooping  on  its  tall  staff,  now  swelling 
full  and  free,  straight  from  its  gripping  halyards. 

Between  me  and  the  fort  many  people  were 
passing  to  and  fro,  some  of  whom  were  to  wralk 
with  me  down  the  long  trail  of  years.  Evermore 
that  April  day  stands  out  as  the  beginning  of 
things  for  me.  Dim  are  the  days  behind  it,  a 
jumble  of  happy  childish  hours,  each  keen  enough 
as  the  things  of  childhood  go;  but  from  that  one 
day  to  the  present  hour  the  unforgotten  deeds  of 
busy  years  run  clearly  in  my  memory  as  I  lift  my 
pen  to  write  somewhat  of  their  dramatic  record. 

4 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

And  that  this  may  not  seem  all  a  backward 
gaze,  let  me  face  about  and  look  forward  from  the 
beginning — a  stretch  of  canvas,  lurid  sometimes, 
sometimes  in  glorious  tinting,  sometimes  intensely 
dark,  with  rifts  of  lightning  cleaving  through  its 
blackness.  But  nowhere  dull,  nowhere  without 
design  in  every  brush-stroke. 

I  had  gone  out  on  the  bluff  to  watch  for  the  big 
fish  that  Bill  Banney,  a  young  Kentuckian  over 
at  the  fort,  had  told  me  were  to  be  seen  only  on 
those  April  days  when  the  Missouri  was  running 
north  instead  of  south.  And  that  when  little 
boys  kept  very  still,  the  fish  would  come  out  of 
the  water  and  play  leap-frog  on  the  sand-bars. 

If  I  failed  to  see  them  this  morning,  I  meant 
to  run  back  to  the  parade-ground  and  play  leap- 
frog myself  with  my  cousin  Beverly,  who  wanted 
proof  for  most  of  Bill  Banney 's  stories.  Beverly 
was  growing  wise  and  lanky  for  his  age.  I  was 
still  chubby,  and  in  most  things  innocent,  and  in- 
clined to  believe  all  that  I  heard,  or  I  should  not 
have  been  taken  in  by  that  fish  story. 

We  were  orphans  with  no  recollection  of  any 
other  home  than  the  log  house  near  the  fort.  We 
had  been  fathered  and  mothered  by  our  uncle, 
Esmond  Clarenden,  owner  of  the  little  store  across 
the  square  from  our  house,  and  a  larger  establish- 
ment down  at  Independence  on  the  Missouri 
v  River. 

Always  a  wonderful  man  to  me  was  that  Esmond 
Clarenden,  product  of  one  of  the  large  old  New 
England  colleges.  He  found  time  to  guard  our 

5 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

young  years  with  the  same  diplomatic  system  by 
which  he  controlled  all  of  his  business  affairs. 
He  laid  his  plans  carefully  and  never  swerved  from 
carrying  them  through  afterward;  he  insisted  on 
order  in  everything;  he  rendered  value  for  value 
in  his  contracts;  he  chose  his  employees  carefully, 
and  trusted  them  fully;  he  had  a  keen  sense  of 
humor,  a  genial  spirit  of  good-will,  and  he  loved 
little  children.  Fitted  as  he  was  by  culture  and 
genius  to  have  entered  into  the  greater  opportuni- 
ties of  the  Eastern  States,  he  gave  himself  to  the 
real  upbuilding  of  the  West,  and  in  the  larger 
comfort  and  prosperity  and  peace  of  the  Kansas 
prairies  of  to-day  his  soul  goes  marching  on. 

The  waters,  as  I  watched  them,  were  all  running 
south  toward  that  vague,  down-stream  world  shut 
off  by  trees  at  a  bend  of  the  course.  I  waited  a 
long  time  there  for  the  current  to  shift  to  the  north, 
wondering  meanwhile  about  those  level-topped 
forests,  and  what  I  might  see  beyond  them  if  I 
were  sitting  on  their  flat  crests.  And,  as  I  won- 
dered, the  first  dim  sense  of  being  shut  in  came 
filtering  through  my  childish  consciousness.  I 
could  not  cross  the  river.  Big  as  my  playground 
had  always  been,  I  had  never  been  out  of  sight  of 
the  fort's  flagstaff  up-stream,  nor  down-stream. 
The  wooded  ravines  blocked  me  on  the  southwest. 
What  lay  beyond  these  limits  I  had  tried  to  pict- 
ure again  and  again.  I  had  been  a  dreamer  all  of 
my  short  life,  and  this  new  feeling  of  being  shut  in, 
held  back,  from  something  slipped  upon  me  easily. 

As  I  sat  on  the  bluff  in  the  April  sunshine,  I 
6 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

turned  my  face  toward  the  west  and  stretched  out 
my  chubby  arms  for  larger  freedom.  I  wanted  to 
see  the  open  level  places,  wanted  till  it  hurt  me.  I 
could  cry  easily  enough  for  some  things.  I  could 
not  cry  for  this.  It  was  too  deep  for  tears  to 
reach.  Moreover,  this  new  longing  seemed  to 
drop  down  on  me  suddenly  and  overwhelm  me, 
until  I  felt  almost  as  if  I  were  caught  in  a  net. 

As  I  stared  with  half-seeing  eyes  toward  the 
wooded  ravines  beyond  the  fort,  suddenly  through 
the  budding  branches  I  caught  sight  of  a  horse- 
man riding  down  a  half-marked  trail  into  a  deep 
hollow.  Horsemen  were  common  enough  to  forget 
in  a  moment,  but  when  this  one  reappeared  on  the 
hither  side  of  the  ravine,  I  saw  that  the  rider's 
face  was  very  dark,  that  his  dress,  from  the  som- 
brero to  the  spurred  heel,  was  Mexican,  and  that 
he  was  heavily  armed,  even  for  a  plainsman. 
When  he  reached  the  top  of  the  bluff  he  made 
straight  across  the  square  toward  my  uncle 
Esmond  Clarenden's  little  storehouse,  and  I  lost 
sight  of  him. 

Something  about  him  seemed  familiar  to  me,  for 
the  gift  of  remembering  faces  was  mine,  even  then. 
A  fleeting  childish  memory  called  up  such  a  face 
and  dress  somewhere  back  in  the  dim  days  of 
babyhood,  with  the  haunting  sound  of  a  low, 
musical  voice,  speaking  in  the  soft  Castilian 
tongue. 

But  the  memory  vanished  and  I  sat  a  long  time 
gazing  at  the  wooded  west  that  hid  the  open  West 
of  my  day-dreams. 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Suddenly  Jondo  came  riding  up  on  his  big  black 
horse  to  the  very  edge  of  the  bluff. 

"You  are  such  a  little  mite,  I  nearly  forgot  to  see 
you,"  he  called,  cheerily.  "Yoftr  Uncle  Esmond 
wants  you  right  away.  Mat  Nivers,  or  some- 
body else,  sent  me  to  run  you  down,"  he  added, 
leaning  over  to  lift  me  up  to  a  seat  on  the  horse 
behind  him. 

Few  handsomer  men  ever  graced  a  saddle. 
Big,  broad-shouldered,  muscular,  yet  agile,  a  head 
set  like  a  Greek  statue,  and  a  face — nobody  could 
ever  make  a  picture  of  Jondo 's  face  for  me — the 
curling  brown  hair,  soft  as  a  girl's,  the  broad  fore- 
head, deep-set  blue  eyes,  heavy  dark  brow,  cheeks 
always  ruddy  through  the  plain's  tan,  strong  white 
teeth,  firm  square  chin,  and  a  smile  like  sunshine 
on  the  gray  prairies.  Eyes,  lips,  teeth — aye,  the 
big  heart  behind  them — all  made  that  smile.  No 
grander  prince  of  men  ever  rode  the  trails  or 
dared  the  dangers  of  the  untamed  West.  I  did 
not  know  his  story  for  many  years.  I  wish  I 
might  never  have  known  it.  But  as  he  began 
with  me,  so  he  ended — brave,  beloved  old  Jondo! 

Down  on  the  parade-ground  Beverly  Clarenden 
and  Mat  Nivers  were  sitting  with  their  feet  crossed 
under  them,  tailor  fashion,  facing  each  other  and 
talking  earnestly.  Over  by  the  fort,  Esmond 
Clarenden  stood  under  a  big  elm-tree.  A  round 
little,  stout  little  man  he  was,  whose  sturdy 
strength  and  grace  of  bearing  made  up  for  his  lack 
of  height.  Like  a  great  green  tent  the  boughs  of 
the  elm,  just  budding  into  leaf,  drooped  over  him. 

8 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

A  young  army  officer  on  a  cavalry  horse  was  talk- 
ing with  him  as  we  came  up. 

"Run  over  there  to  Beverly  now.  Gail,"  my 
uncle  said,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

I  was  always  in  awe  of  shoulder-straps,  so  I 
scampered  away  toward  the  children.  But  not 
until,  child-like,  I  had  stared  at  the  three  men  long 
enough  to  take  a  child's  lasting  estimate  of  things. 

I  carry  still  the  keen  impression  of  that  moment 
when  I  took,  unconsciously,  the  measure  of  the 
three :  the  mounted  army  man,  commander  of  the 
fort,  big  in  his  official  authority  and  force;  Jondo 
on  his  great  black  horse,  to  me  the  heroic  type  of 
chivalric  courage;  and  between  the  two,  Esmond 
Clarenden,  unmounted,  with  feet  firmly  planted, 
suggesting  nothing  heroic,  nothing  autocratic. 
And  yet,  as  he  stood  there,  square-built,  solid, 
certain,  he  seemed  in  some  dim  way  to  be  the  real 
man  of  whom  the  other  two  were  but  shadows. 
It  took  a  quarter  of  a  century  for  me  to  put  into 
words  what  I  learned  with  one  glance  that  day  in 
my  childhood. 

As  I  came  running  toward  the  parade-ground 
Beverly  Clarenden  called  out : 

' '  Come  here,  Gail !  Shut  your  little  mouth  and 
open  your  big  ears,  and  I'll  tell  you  something. 
Maybe  I'd  better  not  tell  you  all  at  once,  though. 
It  might  make  you  dizzy,"  he  added,  teasingly. 

"And  maybe  you  better  had,"  Mat  Nivers  said, 
calmly. 

"Maybe  you'd  better  tell  him  yourself,  if  you 
feel  that  way,"  Beverly  retorted. 

9 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

"I  guess  I'll  do  that, "Mat  began,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  big  gray  eyes;  but  my  cousin  interrupted 
her. 

Beverly  loved  to  tease  Mat  through  me,  but  he 
never  got  far,  for  I  relied  on  her  to  curb  him;  and 
she  was  not  one  to  be  ruffled  by  trifles.  Mat  was 
an  orphan  and,  like  ourselves,  a  ward  of  Esmond 
Clarenden,  but  there  were  no  ties  of  kinship  be- 
tween us.  She  was  three  years  older  than  Bever- 
ly, and  although  she  was  no  taller  than  he,  she 
seemed  like  a  woman  to  me,  a  keen-witted,  good- 
natured  child-woman,  neat,  cleanly,  and  contented. 
I  wonder  if  many  women  get  more  out  of  life  in 
these  days  of  luxurious  comforts  than  she  found  in 
the  days  of  frontier  hardships. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,  Gail.  Mat  doesn't  know 
the  straight  of  it,"  Beverly  began,  dramatically. 
"There's  going  to  be  a  war,  or  something,  in 
Mexico,  or  somewhere,  and  a  lot  of  soldiers  are 
coming  here  to  drill,  and  drill,  and  drill.  And 
then—" 

The  boy  paused  for  effect. 

"And  then,  and  then,  and  then — or  some  time," 
Mat  Nivers  mimicked,  jumping  into  the  pause. 
"Why,  they'll  go  to  Mexico,  or  somewhere.  And 
what  Bev  is  really  trying  to  tell  hasn't  anything  to 
do  with  it — not  directly,  anyhow,"  she  added, 
wisely.  "The  only  new  thing  is  that  Uncle 
Esmond  is  going  to  Santa  Fe  right  away.  You 
know  he  has  bought  goods  of  the  Santa  Fe  traders 
since  we  couldn't  remember.  And  now  he's  going 
down  there  himself,  and  he's  going  to  take  you  boys 

10 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

with  him.     That's  what  Bev  is  trying  to  get  out, 
or  keep  back." 

"Whoopee-diddle-dee!"  Beverly  shouted,  throw- 
ing himself  backward  and  kicking  up  his  heels. 

I  jumped  up  and  capered  about  in  glee  at  the 
thought  of  such  a  journey.  But  my  heart-throb 
of  childish  delight  was  checked,  mid-beat. 

"Won't  Mat  go,  too?"  I  asked,  with  a  sudden 
pain  at  my  throat.  Mat  Nivers  was  a  part  of  life 
to  me. 

The  smile  fell  away  from  the  girl's  lips.  Her  big, 
sunshiny  gray  eyes  and  her  laughing  good  nature 
always  made  her  beautiful  to  Beverly  and  me. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  and  leave  Mat,"  I  insisted. 

"Oh,  I  do,"  Beverly  declared,  boastingly.  "It 
would  be  real  nice  and  jolly  without  her.  And 
what  could  a  little  girl  do  'way  out  on  the  prairies, 
and  no  mother  to  take  care  of  her,  while  we  were 
shooting  Indians?" 

He  sprang  up  and  took  aim  at  the  fort  with  an 
imaginary  bow  and  arrow.  But  there  was  a  hol- 
low note  in  his  voice  as  if  it  covered  a  sob. 

"She  can  shoot  Indians  as  good  as  you  can, 
Beverly  Clarenden,  and,  besides,  there  isn't  any- 
body to  mother  her  here  but  Jondo,  and  I  reckon 
he'll  go  with  us,  won't  he?"  I  urged. 

Mothering  was  not  in  my  stock  of  memories. 
The  heart -hunger  of  the  orphan  child  had  been 
eased  by  the  gentleness  of  Jondo,  the  champion- 
ship of  Mat  Nivers,  and  the  sure  defense  of  Es- 
mond Clarenden,  who  said  little  to  children,  and 
was  instinctively  trusted  by  all  of  them. 

ii 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

With  Beverly's  banter  the  smile  came  back 
quickly  to  Mat's  eyes.  It  was  never  lost  from 
them  long  art  a  time. 

"Beverly  Clarenden,  you  keep  your  little  mouth 
shut  and  your  big  ears  open,"  she  began,  laughing- 
ly. "I  know  the  whole  sheboodle  better  'n  any  of 
you,  and  I'm  not  teasing  and  whimpering  both  at 
the  same  time,  neither.  Bev  doesn't  know  any- 
thing except  what  I've  told  him,  and  I  wasn't 
through  when  you  got  here,  Gail.  There  is  going 
to  be  a  big  war  in  Texas,  and  our  soldiers  are  going 
to  go,  and  to  win,  too.  Just  look  up  at  that  flag 
there,  and  remember  now,  boys,  that  wherever 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  go  they  stay." 

"Who  told  you  all  that?"  Beverly  inquired. 

"The  stars  up  in  the  sky  told  me  that  last 
night,"  Mat  replied,  pulling  down  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  solemnly.  "But  Uncle  Esmond  hasn't 
anything  to  do  with  the  war,  nor  soldiers,  only 
like  he  has  been  doing  here,"  the  girl  went  on. 
"He's  a  store-man,  a  merchant,  and  I  guess  he's 
just  about  as  good  as  a  general — a  colonel,  any- 
how. But  he's  too  short  to  fight,  and  too  fat  to 
run." 

"He  isn't  any  coward,"  Beverly  objected. 

"Who  said  he  was?"  Mat  inquired.  "He's 
one  of  them  usefulest  men  that  keeps  things  going 
everywhere." 

"I  saw  a  real  Mexican  come  up  out  of  the  ravine 
awhile  ago  and  go  straight  over  toward  Uncle 
Esmond's  store.  What  do  you  suppose  he  came 
here  for  ?  Is  he  a  soldier  from  down  there  ? "  I  asked. 

12 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

"Oh,  just  one  Mexican  don't  mean  anything 
anywhere,  but  the  war  in  Mexico  has  something 
to  do  with  our  going  to  Santa  Fe,  even  if  Uncle 
Esmond  is  just  a  nice  little  store-man.  That's 
all  a  girl  knows  about  things,"  Beverly  insisted. 

Mat  opened  her  big  eyes  wide  and  looked 
straight  at  the  boy. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  know  what  I  don't  know, 
but  I'll  bet  a  million  billion  dollars  there  is  some- 
thing else  besides  just  all  this  war  stuff.  I  can't 
tell  it,  I  just  feel  it.  Anyhow,  I'm  to  stay  here 
with  Aunty  Boone  till  you  come  back.  Girls 
can  be  trusted  anywhere,  but  it  may  take  the  whole 
Army  of  the  West,  yet,  to  follow  up  and  look  after 
two  little  runty  boys.  And  let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing, Bev,  something  I  heard  Aunty  Boone  say 
this  morning.  She  said:  "Taint  goin'  to  be 
more  'n  a  minnit  now  till  them  boys  grows  up  an' 
grows  together,  same  size,  same  age.  They  been 
little  and  big,  long  as  they  goin'  to  be.'  Now  you 
know  what  you're  coming  to." 

Mat  was  digging  in  the  ground  with  a  stick,  and 
she  flipped  a  clod  at  Beverly  with  the  last  words. 
Both  of  us  had  once  expected  to  marry  her  when 
we  grew  up,  unless  Jondo  should  carry  her  away  as 
his  bride  before  that  time.  He  was  a  dozen  years 
older  than  Mat,  who  was  only  fourteen  and  small 
for  her  age.  A  flush  always  came  to  her  cheeks 
when  we  talked  of  Jondo  in  that  way.  We  didn't 
know  why. 

We  sat  silent  for  a  little  while.  A  vague  sense  of 
desolateness,  of  the  turning-places  of  life,  as  real 

13 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

to  children  as  to  older  folk,  seemed  to  press  sud- 
denly down  upon  all  three  of  us.  Ours  was  not 
the  ordinary  child-life  even  of  that  day.  And 
that  was  a  time  when  children  had  no  world  of 
their  own  as  they  have  to-day.  Whatever  de- 
veloped men  and  women  became  a  part  of  the 
younger  life  training  as  well.  And  while  we  were 
ignorant  of  much  that  many  children  then  learned 
early,  for  we  had  lived  mostly  beside  the  fort  on 
the  edge  of  the  wilderness,  we  were  alert,  and  self- 
dependent,  fearless  and  far-seeing.  We  could  use 
tools  readily:  we  could  build  fires  and  prepare 
game  for  cooking ;  we  could  climb  trees,  set  traps, 
swim  in  the  creek,  and  ride  horses.  Moreover,  we 
were  bound  to  one  another  by  the  force  of  isolation 
and  need  for  playmates.  Our  imagination  sup- 
plied much  that  our  surroundings  denied  us.  So 
we  felt  more  deeply,  maybe,  than  many  city-bred 
children  who  would  have  paled  with  fear  at  dan- 
gers that  we  only  laughed  over. 

No  ripple  in  the  even  tenor  of  our  days,  however, 
had  given  any  hint  of  the  coming  of  this  sudden 
tense  oppression  on  our  young  souls,  and  we  were 
stunned  by  what  we  could  neither  express  nor 
understand. 

"Whatever  conies  or  doesn't  come,"  Beverly 
said  at  last,  stretching  himself  at  full  length, 
stomach  downward,  on  the  bare  ground,  "what- 
ever happens  to  us,  we  three  will  stand  by  each 
other  always  and  always,  won't  we,  Mat?" 

He  lifted  his  face  to  the  girl's.  Oh,  Beverly! 
I  saw  him  again  one  day  down  the  years,  stretched 

14 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

out  on  the  ground  like  this,  lifting  again  a  pleading 
face.  But  that  belongs — down  the  years. 

"Yes,  always  and  always,"  Mat  replied,  and 
then  because  she  had  a  Spartan  spirit,  she  added: 
"But  let's  don't  say  any  more  that  way.  Let's 
think  of  what  you  are  going  to  see — the  plains, 
the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  the  mountains,  and  maybe  bad 
Indians.  And  even  old  Santa  Fe  town  itself. 
You  are  in  for  'the  big  shift,'  as  Aunty  Boone  says, 
and  you've  got  to  be  little  men  and  take  whatever 
comes.  It  will  come  fast  enough,  you  can  bet 
on  that." 

Yesterday  I  might  have  sobbed  on  her  shoulder. 
I  did  not  know  then  that  out  on  the  bluff  an  hour 
ago  I  had  come  to  the  first  turn  in  my  life-trail, 
and  that  I  could  not  look  back  now.  I  did  know 
that  I  wanted  to  go  with  Uncle  Esmond.  I  looked 
away  from  Mat's  gray  eyes,  and  Beverly's  head 
dropped  on  his  arms,  face  downward — looked  at 
nothing  but  blue  sky,  and  a  graceful  drooping  flag; 
nothing  but  a  half-sleepy,  half -active  fort ;  nothing 
but  the  yellow  April  floods  far  up-stream,  between 
wooded  banks  tenderly  gray-green  in  the  spring 
sunshine.  But  I  did  not  see  any  of  these  things 
then.  Before  my  eyes  there  stretched  a  vast  level 
prairie,  with  dim  mountain  heights  beyond  them. 
And  marching  toward  them  westward,  westward, 
past  lurking  danger,  Indians  here  and  wild  beasts 
there,  went  three  men :  the  officer  on  his  cavalry 
mount;  Jondo  on  his  big  black  horse;  Esmond 
Clarenden,  neither  mounted  nor  on  foot,  it  seemed, 
but  going  forward  somehow.  And  between  these 

15 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

three  and  the  misty  mountain  peaks  there  was  a 
face — not  Mat  Nivers's,  for  the  first  time  in  all  my 
day-dreams — a  sweet  face  with  dark  eyes  looking 
straight  into  mine.  And  plainly  then,  just  as 
plainly  as  I  have  heard  it  many  times  since  then, 
came  a  call — the  first  clear  bugle-note  of  the 
child-soul — a  call  to  service,  to  patriotism,  and 
to  love. 

All  that  afternoon  while  Mat  Nivers  sang  about 
her  tasks  Beverly  and  I  tried  to  play  together 
among  the  elm  and  cottonwood  trees  about  our 
little  home,  but  evening  found  us  wide  awake  and 
moping.  Instead  of  the  two  tired  little  sleepy- 
heads that  could  barely  finish  supper,  awake, 
when  night  came,  we  lay  in  our  trundle-bed,  whis- 
pering softly  to  each  other  and  staring  at  the  dark 
with  tear-wet  eyes — our  spiritual  barometers 
warning  us  of  a  coming  change.  Something  must 
have  happened  to  us  that  night  which  only  the 
retrospect  of  years  revealed.  In  that  hour  Beverly 
Clarenden  lost  a  year  of  his  life  and  I  gained  one. 
From  that  time  we  were  no  longer  little  and  big 
to  each  other — we  were  comrades. 

It  must  have  been  nearly  midnight  when  I 
crept  out  of  bed  and  slipped  into  the  big  room 
where  Uncle  Esmond  and  Jondo  sat  by  the  fire- 
place, talking  together. 

"Hello,  little  night-hawk!  Come  here  and 
roost,"  Jondo  said,  opening  his  arms  to  me. 

I  slid  into  their  embrace  and  snuggled  my  head 
against  his  broad  shoulder,  listening  to  all  that 
was  said.  Three  months  later  the  little  boy  had 

16 


THE    BEGINNINGS 

become  a  little  man,  and  my  cuddling  days  had 
given  place  to  the  self-reliance  of  the  fearless 
youngster  of  the  trail. 

"Why  do  you  make  this  trip  now,  Esmond?" 
Jondo  asked  at  length,  looking  straight  into  my 
uncle's  face. 

"I  want  to  get  down  there  right  now  because  I 
want  to  get  a  grip  on  trade  conditions.  I  can  do 
better  after  the  war  if  I  do.  It  won't  last  long, 
and  we  are  sure  to  take  over  a  big  piece  of 
ground  there  when  it  is  over.  And  when  that  is 
settled  commerce  must  do  the  real  building-up  of 
the  country.  I  want  to  be  a  part  of  that  thing 
and  grow  with  it.  Why  do  you  go  with  me?" 

My  uncle  looked  directly  at  Jondo,  although  he 
asked  the  question  carelessly. 

"To  help  you  cross  the  plains.  You  know  the 
redskins  get  worse  every  trip,"  Jondo  answered, 
lightly. 

I  stared  at  both  01  them  until  Jondo  said, 
laughingly: 

"You  little  owl,  what  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"I  think  you  are  telling  each  other  stories,"  I 
replied,  frankly. 

For  somehow  their  faces  made  me  think  of 
Beverly's  face  out  on  the  parade-ground  that 
morning,  when  he  had  lifted  it  and  looked  at  Mat 
Nivers;  and  their  voices,  deep  bass  as  they  were, 
sounded  like  Beverly's  voice  whispering  between 
his  sobs,  before  he  went  to  sleep. 

Both  men  smiled  and  said  nothing.  But  when 
I  went  to  my  bed  again  Jondo  tucked  the  covers 

17 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

about  me  and  Uncle  Esmond  came  and  bade  me 
good  night. 

"I  guess  you  have  the  makings  of  a  plainsman," 
he  said,  with  a  smile,  as  he  patted  me  on  the  head. 

' '  The  beginnings,  anyhow, ' '  Jondo  added .  ' '  He 
can  see  pretty  far  already." 

For  a  long  time  I  lay  awake,  thinking  of  all  that 
Uncle  Esmond  and  Jondo  had  said  to  me.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  I  remember  that  April  day  as  if  it  were  , 
but  yesterday.  Such  days  come  only  to  childhood, 
and  oftentimes  when  no  one  of  older  years  can  see 
clearly  enough  to  understand  the  bigness  of  their 
meaning  to  the  child  who  lives  through  them. 

All  of  my  life  I  had  heard  stories  of  the  East,  of 
New  York  and  St.  Louis,  where  there  were  big 
houses  and  wonderful  stores.  And  of  Washing- 
ton, where  there  was  a  President,  and  a  Congress, 
and  a  strange  power  that  could  fill  and  empty 
Fort  Leavenworth  at  will.  I  had  heard  of  the 
Great  Lakes,  and  of  cotton-fields,  and  tobacco - 
plantations,  and  sugar-camps,  and  ships,  and  steam- 
cars.  I  had  pictured  these  things  a  thousand  times 
in  my  busy  imagination  and  had  longed  to  see 
them.  But  from  that  day  they  went  out  of  my 
life-dreams.  Henceforth  I  belonged  to  the  prairies 
of  the  West.  No  one  but  myself  took  account 
of  this,  nor  guessed  that  a  life-trend  had  had  its 
commencement  in  the  small  events  of  one  unim- 
portant day. 


II 


A   DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

One  stone  the  more  swings  to  her  place 
In  that  dread  Temple  of  Thy  worth; 

It  is  enough  that  through  Thy  grace 
I  saw  naught  common  on  Thy  earth. 

next  morning  I  was  wakened  by  the  soft 
1   voice  of  Aunty  Boone,  our  cook,  saying  : 

"You  better  get  up!  Revilly  blow  over  at  the 
fort  long  time  ago.  Wonder  it  didn't  blow  your 
batter-cakes  clear  away.  Mat  and  Beverly  been 
up  since  'fore  sunup." 

Aunty  Boone  was  the  biggest  woman  I  have  ever 
seen.  Not  the  tallest,  maybe  —  although  she 
measured  up  to  a  height  of  six  feet  and  two  inches 
— not  the  fattest,  but  a  woman  with  the  biggest 
human  frame,  overlaid  with  steel-hard  muscles. 
Yet  she  was  not,  in  her  way,  clumsy  or  awkward. 
She  walked  with  a  free  stride,  and  her  every  mo- 
tion showed  a  powerful  muscular  control.  Her 
face  was  jet-black,  with  keen  shining  eyes,  and 
glittering  white  teeth.  In  my  little  child-world 
she  was  the  strangest  creature  I  had  ever  known. 
In  the  larger  world  whither  the  years  of  my  man- 
hood have  led  me  she  holds  the  same  place. 

19 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

She  had  been  born  a  princess  of  royal  blood,  heir 
to  a  queenship  in  her  tribe  in  a  far-away  African 
kingdom.  In  her  young  womanhood,  so  the  tale 
ran,  the  slave-hunter  had  found  her  and  driven  her 
aboard  a  slave-ship  bound  for  the  American  coast. 
He  never  drove  another  slave  toward  any  coast. 
In  Virginia  her  first  purchaser  had  sold  her  quickly 
to  a  Georgia  planter  whose  heirs  sent  her  on  to 
Mississippi.  Thence  she  soon  found  her  way 
to  the  Louisiana  rice-fields.  Nobody  came  to  take 
her  back  to  any  place  she  had  quitted.  "Safety 
first,"  is  not  a  recent  practice.  She  had  enormous 
strength  and  capacity  for  endurance,  she  learned 
rapidly,  kept  her  own  counsel,  obeyed  no  command 
unless  she  chose  to  do  so,  and  feared  nothing  in  the 
Lord's  universe.  The  people  of  her  own  race  had 
little  in  common  with  her.  They  never  under- 
stood her  and  so  they  feared  her.  And  being  as 
it  were  outcast  by  them,  she  came  to  know  more 
of  the  ways  and  customs,  and  even  the  thoughts, 
of  the  white  people  better  than  of  her  own.  Be- 
ing quick  to  imitate,  she  spoke  in  the  correcter 
language  of  those  whom  she  knew  best,  rather 
than  the  soft,  ungrammatical  dialect  of  the  planta- 
tion slave  or  the  grunt  and  mumble  of  the  isolated 
African.  Realizing  that  service  was  to  be  her  lot, 
she  elected  to  render  that  service  where  and  to 
whom  she  herself  might  choose. 

One  day  she  had  walked  into  New  Orleans  and 
boarded  a  Mississippi  steamer  bound  for  St. 
Louis.  It  took  three  men  to  eject  her  bodily 
from  the  deck  into  a  deep  and  dangerous  portion 

20 


A    DAUGHTER   OF    CANAAN 

of  the  stream.  She  swam  ashore,  and  when  the 
steamer  made  its  next  stop  she  walked  aboard 
again.  The  three  men  being  under  the  care  of  a 
physician,  and  the  remainder  of  the  crew  burdened 
with  other  tasks,  she  was  not  again  disturbed. 
Some  time  later  she  appeared  at  the  landing  below 
Fort  Leaven  worth,  and  strode  up  the  slope  to  the 
deserted  square  where  Esmond  Clarenden  stood  be- 
fore his  little  store  alone  in  the  deepening  twilight. 

I  have  heard  that  she  had  had  a  way  of  ap- 
pearing suddenly,  like  a  beast  of  prey,  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening,  and  that  few  men  cared  to  meet 
her  at  that  time  alone. 

My  uncle  was  a  snug-built  man,  sixty-two  inches 
high,  with  small,  shapely  hands  and  feet.  Tower- 
ing above  him  stood  this  great,  strange  creature, 
barefooted,  ragged,  half  tiger,  half  sphinx. 

"I'm  hungry.  I'll  eat  or  I  kill.  I'm  nobody's 
slave!" 

The  soft  voice  was  full  of  menace,  the  glare  of 
famine  and  fury  was  in  the  burning  eyes,  and  the 
supple  cruelty  of  the  wild  beast  was  in  the  clenched 
hands. 

Esmond  Clarenden  looked  up  at  her  with  in- 
terest. Then  pointing  toward  our  house  he  said, 
calmly : 

"Neither  are  you  anybody's  master.  Go  over 
there  to  the  kitchen  and  get  your  supper.  If  you 
can  cook  good  meals,  I'll  pay  you  well.  If  you 
can't,  you'll  leave  here." 

Possibly  it  was  the  first  time  in  her  strange 
and  varied  career  that  she  had  taken  a  command 

21 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

kindly,  and  obeyed  because  she  must.  And  so  the 
savage  African  princess,  the  terror  of  the  terrible 
slave-ship,  the  untamed  plantation  scourge,  with 
a  record  for  deeds  that  belong  to  another  age  and 
social  code,  became  the  great,  silent,  faithful,  fear- 
less servant  of  the  plains;  with  us,  but  never  of 
us,  in  all  the  years  that  followed.  But  she  fitted 
the  condition  of  her  day,  and  in  her  place  she  stood, 
where  the  beloved  black  mammy  of  a  gentler 
mold  would  have  fallen. 

She  announced  that  her  name  was  Daniel  Boone, 
which  Uncle  Esmond  considered  well  enough  for 
one  of  such  a  westward-roving  nature.  But 
Jondo  declared  that  the  "Daniel"  belonged  to  her 
because,  like  unto  the  Bible  Daniel,  no  lion,  nor 
whole  den  of  lions,  would  ever  dine  at  her  expense. 
To  us  she  became  Aunty  Boone.  With  us  she  was 
always  gentle — docile,  rather;  and  one  day  we 
came  to  know  her  real  measure,  and — we  never 
forgot  her. 

I  bounced  out  of  bed  at  her  call  this  morning, 
and  bounced  my  breakfast  into  a  healthy,  good- 
natured  stomach.  The  sunny  April  of  yesterday 
had  whirled  into  a  chilly  rain,  whipped  along  by 
a  raw  wind.  The  skies  were  black  and  all  the 
spring  verdure  was  turned  to  a  sickish  gray-green. 

"Weather  always  fit  the  times,"  Aunty  Boone 
commented  as  she  heaped  my  plate  with  the  fat 
buckwheat  cakes  that  only  she  could  ever  turn  off 
a  griddle.  "You  packin'  up  for  somepin'  now. 
What  you  goin'  to  get  is  fo'casted  in  this  here 
nasty  day." 

22 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

"Why,  we  are  going  away!"  I  cried,  suddenly 
recalling  the  day  before.  "I  wish,  though,  that 
Mat  could  go.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go,  too, 
Aunty?  Only,  Bev  says  there's  deserts,  where 
there's  just  rocks  and  sand  and  everything,  and 
no  water  sometimes.  You  and  Mat  couldn't 
stand  that  'cause  you  are  women-folks." 

I  stiffened  with  importance  and  clutched  my 
knife  and  fork  hard. 

"Couldn't!"  Aunty  Boone  gave  a  scornful 
grunt.  "Women -folks  stands  double  more  'n 
men.  You'll  see  when  you  get  older.  I  know 
abolit  you  freightin'  off  to  Santy  Fee.  You 
don't  know  what  desset  is.  You  never  see  sand. 
You  never  feel  what  it  is  to  want  watah.  Only 
folks  'cross  the  ocean  in  the  real  desset  knows 
that.  Whoo-ee!" 

I  remembered  the  weird  tales  she  had  told  us  of 
her  girlhood — tales  that  had  thrilled  me  with  won- 
der— told  sometimes  in  the  twilight,  sometimes 
by  the  kitchen  fire  on  winter  nights,  sometimes  on 
long,  still,  midsummer  afternoons  when  the  air 
quivered  with  heat  and  the  Missouri  hung  about 
hot  sand-bars,  half  asleep. 

"What  do  you  know  about  this  trip,  Aunty 
Boone?"  I  asked,  eagerly;  for  although ^he  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  she  had  a  sponge-like  ab- 
sorbing power  for  keeping  posted  on  all  that 
happened  at  the  fort. 

"Cla'n'den" — the  woman  never  called  my  uncle 
by  any  other  name — "he's  goin'  to  Santy  Fee,  an' 
you  boys  with  him,  'cause — " 
3  23 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

She  paused  and  her  shining  eyes  grew  dull  as 
they  had  a  way  of  doing  in  her  thoughtful  or 
prophetic  moments. 

"He  knows  what  for — him  an'  Jondo.  One  of 
'em's  storekeeper  an'  t'other  a  plainsman,  but 
they  tote  together  always — an'  they  totin'  now. 
You  can't  see  what,  but  they  totin',  they  totin', 
just  the  same.  Now  run  out  to  the  store.  Things 
is  stirrin'.  Things  is  stirrin'." 

I  bolted  my  cakes,  sodden  with  maple  syrup, 
drank  my  mug  of  milk,  and  hurried  out  toward  the 
storehouse. 

Fort  Leavenworth  in  the  middle  '40*5  was  some- 
times an  indolent  place,  and  sometimes  a  very  busy 
one,  depending  upon  the  activity  of  the  Western 
frontier.  On  this  raw  April  morning  everything 
was  fairly  ajerk  with  life  and  motion.  And  I 
knew  from  child-experience  that  a  body  of  soldiers 
must  be  coming  up  the  river  soon.  Horses  were 
rushed  to-day  where  yesterday  they  had  been 
leisurely  led.  Orders  were  shouted  now  that  had 
been  half  sung  a  week  ago.  Military  discipline 
took  the  place  of  fatigue  attitudes.  There  was  a 
banging  of  doors,  a  swinging  of  brooms,  a  clatter  of 
tin,  and  a  clanging  of  iron  things.  And  every- 
where went  that  slapping  wind.  And  every 
shallow  place  in  the  ground  held  a  chilly  puddle. 
The  government  buildings  always  seemed  big  and 
bare  and  cold  to  me.  And  this  morning  they 
seemed  drearier  than  ever,  beaten  upon  by  the 
fitful  swish  of  the  rain. 

In  contrast  with  these  were  my  uncle's  snug 
24 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

quarters,  for  warmth  was  a  part  of  Esmond 
Clarenden's  creed.  I  used  to  think  that  the  little 
storeroom,  filled  with  such  things  as  a  frontier 
fort  could  find  use  for,  was  the  biggest  emporium 
in  America,  and  the  owner  thereof  suffered  noth- 
ing, in  my  eyes,  in  comparison  with  A.  T.  Stewart, 
the  opulent  New  York  merchant  of  his  day. 

As  I  ran,  bareheaded  and  coatless,  across  the 
wide  wet  space  between  our  home  and  the  store- 
house a  soldier  came  dashing  by  on  horseback.  I 
dodged  behind  him  only  to  fall  sprawling  in  a 
slippery  pool  under  the  very  feet  of  another  horse- 
man, riding  swiftly  toward  the  boat-landing. 

Neither  man  paid  any  attention  to  me  as  I 
slowly  picked  myself  up  and  started  toward  the 
store.  The  soldier  had  not  seen  me  at  all.  The 
other  man's  face  was  dark,  and  he  wore  the  dress  of 
the  Mexican.  It  was  only  by  his  alertness  and 
skill  that  his  horse  missed  me,  but  as  he  hurried 
away  he  gave  no  more  heed  to  me  than  if  I  had 
been  a  stone  in  his  path. 

I  had  turned  my  ankle  in  the  fall  and  I  could 
only  limp  to  the  storehouse  and  drop  down  inside. 
I  would  not  cry  out,  but  I  could  not  hold  back  the 
sobs  as  I  tried  to  stand,  and  fell  again  in  a  heap  at 
Jondo's  feet. 

"Things  were  stirrin' "  there,  as  Aunty  Boone 
had  said,  but  withal  there  was  no  disorder.  Es- 
mond Clarenden  never  did  business  in  that  way. 
No  loose  ends  flapped  about  his  rigging,  and  when 
a  piece  of  work  was  finished  with  him,  there  was 
nothing  left  to  clear  away.  Bill  Banney,  the  big 

25 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

grown-up  boy  from  Kentucky,  who,  out  of  love  of 
adventure,  had  recently  come  to  the  fort,  was  help- 
ing Jondo  with  the  packing  of  certain  goods.  Mat 
and  Beverly  were  perched  on  the  counter,  watching 
all  that  was  being  done  and  hearing  all  that  was 
said. 

"What's  the  matter,  little  plainsman?"  Jondo 
cried,  catching  me  up  and  setting  me  on  the  coun- 
ter. "Got  a  thorn  in  your  shoe,  or  a  stone- 
bruise,  or  a  chilblain?" 

"I  slipped  out  there  behind  a  soldier  on  horse- 
back, right  in  front  of  a  little  old  Mexican  who  was 
just  whirling  off  to  the  river,"  I  said,  the  tears 
blinding  my  eyes. 

"Why,  he's  turned  his  ankle !  Looks  like  it  was 
swelling  already,"  Mat  Nivers  declared,  as  she 
slid  from  the  counter  and  ran  toward  me. 

"It's  a  bad  job,"  Jondo  declared.  "Just  when 
we  want  to  get  off,  too." 

"Can't  I  go  with  you  to  Santa  Fe,  Uncle 
Esmond?"  I  wailed. 

"Yes,  Gail,  we'll  fix  you  up  all  right,"  my  uncle 
said,  but  his  face  was  grave  as  he  examined  my 
ankle. 

It  was  a  bad  job,  much  worse  than  any  of  us  had 
thought  at  first.  And  as  they  all  gathered  round 
me  I  suddenly  noticed  the  same  Mexican  standing 
in  the  doorway,  and  I  heard  some  one,  I  think  it 
was  Uncle  Esmond,  say : 

"Jondo,  you'd  better  take  Gail  over  to  the  sur- 
geon right  away — "  His  voice  trailed  off  some- 
where and  all  was  blank  nothingness  to  me.  But 

26 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

my  last  impression  was  that  my  uncle  stayed  be- 
hind with  the  strange  Mexican. 

In  the  excitement  everybody  forgot  that  I  had 
on  neither  hat  nor  coat  as  they  carried  me  through 
the  raw  wet  air  to  the  army  surgeon's  quarters 
beyond  the  soldiers'  barracks. 

A  chill  and  fever  followed,  and  for  a  week  there 
was  only  pain  and  trouble  for  me.  Nothing  else 
hurt  quite  so  deeply,  however,  as  the  fear  of  being 
left  behind  when  the  Clarendens  should  start  for 
Santa  Fe.  I  would  ask  no  questions,  and  nobody 
mentioned  the  trip,  for  which  everything  was 
preparing.  I  began  at  last  to  have  a  dread  of  being 
left  in  the  night,  of  wakening  some  morning  to 
find  only  Mat  and  myself  with  Aunty  Boone  in  the 
little  log  house.  Uncle  Esmond  had  already  been 
away  for  three  days,  but  nobody  told  me  where  he 
had  gone,  nor  why  he  went,  nor  when  he  would 
come  back.  It  kept  me  awake  at  night,  and  the 
loss  of  sleep  made  me  nervous  and  feverish. 

One  afternoon  about  a  week  after  my  accident, 
when  Beverly  and  Mat  were  putting  the  room  in 
order  and  chattering  like  a  couple  of  squirrels, 
Beverly  said,  carelessly: 

"Gail,  it's  been  a  half  a  week  since  Uncle 
Esmond  went  down  to  our  other  store  in  Inde- 
pendence, and  we  are  going  to  start  on  our  trip 
just  as  soon  as  he  gets  back,  unless  he  sends  for  me 
and  Jondo." 

I  knew  that  he  was  trying  to  tell  me  that  they 
meant  to  go  without  me,  for  he  hurried  out  with 
the  last  words.  No  boy  wants  to  talk  to  a  dis- 

27 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

appointed  boy,  and  I  had  to  clinch  my  teeth  hard 
to  keep  back  the  tears. 

"I  want  to  get  well  quicker,  Mat.  I  want  to  go 
to  Santa  Fe  with  Beverly,"  I  wailed,  making  a 
desperate  effort  to  get  out  of  bed. 

"You  cuddle  right  down  there,  Gail  Clarenden, 
if  you  want  to  get  well  at  all.  If  you're  real  care- 
ful you'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two.  Let's  wait 
for  Uncle  Esmond  to  come  home  before  we  start 
any  worries." 

It  was  in  her  voice,  girl  or  woman,  that  comfort- 
ing note  that  could  always  soothe  me. 

"Mat,  won't  you  try  to  get  them  to  let  me  go?" 
I  pleaded. 

She  made  no  promises,  but  busied  herself  with 
getting  my  foot  into  its  place  again,  singing  softly 
to  herself  all  the  while.  Then  she  read  me  stories 
from  our  few  story-books  till  I  fell  asleep. 

It  was  twilight  when  I  wakened.  Where  I  lay 
I  could  hear  Esmond  Clarenden  and  Aunty  Boone 
talking  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  listened  eagerly  to 
all  they  said. 

"But  it's  no  place  for  a  woman,"  my  uncle  was 
urging,  gravely. 

"I  ain't  a  woman,  I'm  a  cook.  You  want 
cooks  if  you  eats.  Mat  ain't  a  woman,  she's 
a  girl.  But  she's  stronger  'n  Beverly.  If  you 
can't  leave  him,  how  can  you  leave  her?  An' 
Gail  never  get  well  if  he's  left  here,  Cla'n'den, 
now  he's  got  the  goin'  fever.  Never!  An'  if  you 
never  got  back — " 

"I  don't  believe  he  would  get  well,   either." 
28 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

Then  Uncle  Esmond  spoke  lower  and  I  could  not 
hear  any  more. 

Pretty  soon  Mat  and  Beverly  burst  open  the 
door  and  came  dancing  in  together,  the  sweet  air 
of  the  warm  April  evening  coming  in  with  them, 
and  life  grew  rose-colored  for  me  in  a  moment. 

"We  are  all  going  to  Santa  Fe  over  the  long 
trail.  Every  last  gun  of  us.  Aunty  Boone,  and 
Mat,  and  you,  and  me,  and  Jondo,  and  Uncle 
Esmond,  rag- tag  and  bobtail.  Whoop-ee-diddle- 
dee!"  Beverly  threw  up  his  cap,  and,  catching 
Mat  by  the  arms,  they  whirled  around  the  room 
together. 

"Who  says  so,  Bev?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"Them  as  knows  and  bosses  everything  in  this 
world.  Jondo  told  ire,  and  he's  just  the  boss's 
shadow.  Now  guess  who,"  Beverly  replied. 

"It's  all  true,  Gail,"  Mat  assured  me.  "Esmond 
Clarenden  is  going  to  Santa  Fe  in  spite  of  'war, 
pestilence,  famine,  and  sword,'  as  my  History  of 
the  World  says,  and  he  is  going  to  take  son 
Beverly,  and  son  Gail  to  watch  son  Beverly;  and 
Miss  Mat  Nivers  to  watch  both  of  them  and  shoo 
Indians  away;  and  Aunt  Daniel  Boone  to  scare 
the  Mexicans  into  the  Gulf  of  California,  if  they 
act  ugly,  see!" 

She  capered  about  the  room,  and  as  she  passed 
me  she  stooped  and  patted  me  on  the  forehead.  I 
didn't  want  her  to  do  that.  I  had  taken  a  long 
jump  away  from  little-boy-dom  a  week  ago,  but  I 
was  supremely  content  now  that  all  of  us  were  to 
take  the  long  trail  together. 

29 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

That  evening  while  Mat  and  Beverly  went  to 
look  after  some  fishing-lines  they  had  set — Mat 
and  Bev  were  always  going  fishing — and  Jon  do  was 
down  at  the  store,  the  officer  in  command  of  the 
fort  came  in.  He  paid  no  attention  to  me  lying 
there,  all  eyes  and  ears  whenever  shoulder-straps 
were  present. 

"What  did  you  decide  to  do  about  the  trip  to 
Santa  Fe?"  he  asked,  as  he  tipped  back  in  his 
chair  and  settled  down  to  .cigars  and  an  evening 
chat. 

"We  shall  be  leaving  on  the  boat  in  the  morn- 
ing," my  uncle  replied. 

The  colonel's  chair  came  down  with  a  crack. 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  he  exclaimed. 

' '  I  told  you  a  week  ago  that  I  would  be  starting 
as  soon  as  possible,"  Esmond  Clarenden  said, 
quietly. 

"But,  man,  the  war  is  raging,  simply  raging, 
down  in  Mexico  right  now.  Our  division  will  be 
here  to  commence  drill  in  a  few  weeks,  and  we  start 
for  the  border  in  a  few  months.  You  are  mad  to 
take  such  a  risk."  The  commander's  voice  rose. 

' '  We  must  go,  that's  all !' '  my  uncle  insisted. 

"We?  We?  Who  the  devil  are  'we'?  None 
of  my  companies  mutinied,  I  hope." 

The  words  did  not  sound  like  a  joke,  and  there 
was  little  humor  in  the  grim  face. 

"  'We'  means  Jondo,  Banney,  a  young  fellow 
from  Kentucky — "  Uncle  Esmond  began. 

"Humph!  Banney's  father  carried  a  gun  at 
Fort  Dearborn  in  1812.  I  thought  that  young 

30 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

fellow  came  here  for  military  service,"  the  colonel 
commented,  testily. 

"Rather  say  he  came  for  adventure,"  Esmond 
Clarenden  suggested. 

"He'll  get  a  deuced  lot  of  it  in  a  hurry,  if  you 
persuade  him  off  with  you." 

A  flush  swept  over  Esmond  Clarenden's  face, 
but  his  good-natured  smile  did  not  fail  as  he 
replied : 

"I  don't  persuade  anybody.  The  rest  of  the 
company  are  my  two  nephews  and  the  little  girl, 
my  ward,  with  our  cook,  Daniel  Boone,  as  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  pots  and  pans  and  any 
Indian  meat  foolish  enough  to  fall  in  her  way." 

Then  came  the  explosion.  Powder  would  have 
cost  less  than  the  energy  blown  off  there.  The 
colonel  stamped  and  swore,  and  sprang  to  his  feet 
in  opposition,  and  flung  himself  down  in  disgust. 

"Women  and  children!"  he  gasped.  "Why  do 
you  sacrifice  helpless  innocent  ones?" 

Just  then  Aunty  Boone  strode  in  carrying  a  log 
of  wood  as  big  as  a  man's  body,  which  she  deftly 
threw  on  the  fire.  As  the  flame  blazed  high  she 
gave  one  look  at  the  young  officer  sitting  before  it, 
and  then  walked  out  as  silently  and  sturdily  as  she 
had  entered.  It  was  such  a  look  as  a  Great  Dane 
dog  full  of  superiority  and  indifference  might  have 
given  to  a  terrier  puppy,  and  from  where  I  lay  I 
thought  the  military  man's  face  took  on  a  very 
strange  expression. 

"I  'sacrifice  my  innocent  ones,'"  my  uncle 
answered  the  query,  "because  they  will  be  safer 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

with  me  than  anywhere  else.     Young  as  they  are, 
there  are  some  forces  against  them  already." 

"Well,  you  are  going  to  a  perilous  place,  over  a 
most  perilous  trail,  in  a  most  perilous  time  of 
national  affairs,  to  meet  such  treacherously  vil- 
lainous men  as  New  Mexico  offers  in  her  market- 
places right  now?  And  all  for  the  sake  of  the  com- 
merce of  the  plains?  Why  do  you  take  such 
.  chances  to  do  business  with  such  people,  Claren- 
den?" 

Esmond  Clarenden  had  been  staring  at  the 
burning  logs  in  the  big  fireplace  during  this  con- 
versation. He  turned  now  and  faced  the  young 
army  officer  squarely  as  he  said  in  that  level  tone 
that  we  children  had  learned  long  ago  was  final : 

"Colonel,  I'd  go  straight  to  hell  and  do  business 
with  the  devil  himself  if  I  had  any  business  deal- 
ings with  him." 

The  colonel's  face  fell.  Slowly  he  relighted  his 
cigar,  and  leaned  back  again  in  his  chair,  and  with 
that  diplomacy  that  covers  a  skilful  retreat  he 
said,  smilingly: 

"If  any  man  west  of  the  Missouri  River  ever 
could  do  that  it  would  be  you,  Clarenden.  By 
the  holy  Jerusalem,  the  military  lost  one  grand 
commander  when  you  chose  a  college  instead  of 
West  Point,  and  the  East  lost  one  well-bred 
gentleman  from  its  circles  of  commerce  and  cult- 
ure when  you  elected  to  do  business  on  the  old 
Santa  Fe  Trail  instead  of  Broadway.  But  I  reckon 
the  West  will  need  just  such  men  as  you  long  after 
the  frontier  fort  has  become  a  central  point  in  the 

32 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

country's  civilized  area.  And,  blast  you,  Claren- 
den,  blast  your  very  picture!  No  man  can  help 
liking  you.  Not  even  the  devil  if  he  had  the 
chance.  Not  one  man  in  ten  thousand  would  dare 
to  make  that  trip  right  now.  You've  got  the 
courage  of  a  colonel  and  the  judgment  of  a  judge. 
Go  to  Santa  Fe !  We  may  meet  you  coming  back. 
If  we  do,  and  you  need  us,  command  us !" 

He  gave  a  courteous  salute,  and  the  two  began 
to  talk  of  other  things;  among  them  the  purposes 
that  were  bringing  young  men  westward. 

"So  Banney,  right  out  of  old  blue-grassy  Ken- 
tucky, is  going  to  back  out  of  here  and  go  with 
you,"  the  colonel  remarked. 

"I've  hired  him  to  drive  one  team.  It's  a  lark 
for  him,  but  the  army  would  be  a  lark  just  the 
same,"  Esmond  Clarenden  declared.  "He  says 
he  is  to  kill  rattlesnakes  and  Mexicans,  while 
Jondo  kills  Indians  and  I  sit  tight  on  top  of  the 
bales  of  goods  to  keep  the  wind  from  blowing  them 
away.  And  the  boys  are  to  be  made  bridle-wise, 
plains-broke  for  future  freighting.  That's  all  that 
life  means  to  him  right  now." 

I  do  not  know  what  else  was  said,  nor  what  I 
heard  and  what  I  dreamed  after  that.  If  this 
journey  meant  a  lark  to  a  grown-up  boy,  it  meant 
a  pilgrimage  through  fairyland  to  a  young  boy 
like  myself. 

And  so  the  new  life  opened  to  us;  and  if  the 
way  was  fraught  with  hardship  and  danger,  it 
also  taught  us  courage  and  endurance.  Nor  must 
we  be  measured  by  the  boy  life  of  to-day.  Chil- 

33 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

dren  lived  the  grown-up  life  then.  It  was  all 
there  was  for  them  to  live. 

The  yellow  Missouri  boiled  endlessly  along  by 
the  foot  of  the  bluff.  The  flag  flapped  broadly 
in  the  strong  breeze  that  blew  in  from  the  west ;  the 
square  log  house — the  only  home  we  had  ever 
known — looked  forlornly  after  us,  with  its  two 
front  windows  with  blinds  half  drawn,  like  two 
half -closed,  watching  eyes;  the  cotton  woods  and 
elms,  the  tiny  storehouse — everything — grew  sud- 
denly very  dear  to  us.  The  fort  buildings  throw- 
ing long  shadows  in  the  early  morning,  the  level- 
topped  forests  east  of  the  Missouri  River,  and  the 
budding  woodland  that  overdraped  the  ravines  to 
the  west,  even  in  their  silence,  seemed  like  sentient 
things,  loving  us,  as  we  loved  them. 

We  children  had  gone  all  over  the  place  before 
sunrise  and  touched  everything,  in  token  of  good- 
by;  from  some  instinct  tarrying  longest  at  the 
flagpole,  where  we  threw  kisses  to  the  great,  beau- 
tiful banner  high  above  us.  Now,  at  the  moment 
of  leaving  all  these  familiar  things  of  all  our  years, 
a  choking  pain  came  to  our  throats.  Mat's  eyes 
filled  with  tears  and  she  looked  resolutely  forward. 
Beverly  and  I  clutched  hands  and  shut  our  teeth 
together,  determined  to  overcome  this  home-grip 
on  our  hearts.  Aunty  Boone  sat  in  a  corner  of  the 
deck  as  the  boat  swung  out  into  the  stream,  her 
eyes  dull  and  unseeing.  She  never  spoke  of  her 
thoughts,  but  I  have  wondered  often,  since  that  big 
day  of  my  young  years,  if  she  might  not  have  re- 
called other  voyages :  the  slave-ship  putting  out  to 

34 


A    DAUGHTER    OF    CANAAN 

sea  with  the  African  shores  fading  behind  her ;  and 
the  big  river  steamer  at  the  New  Orleans  dock  where 
brutal  hands  had  hurled  her  from  the  deck  into  the 
dangerous  floods  of  the  Mississippi.  This  was  her 
third  voyage,  a  brief  run  from  Fort  Leavenworth 
to  Independence.  She  was  apart  from  her  fellow- 
passengers  as  in  the  other  two,  but  now  nobody 
gave  her  a  curse,  nor  a  blow. 


THE   WIDENING   HORIZON 

Whose  furthest  footsteps  never  strayed 

Beyond  the  village  of  his  birth, 
Is  but  a  lodger  for  the  night 

In  this  old  Wayside  Inn  of  Earth. 

'""PHE  broad  green  prairies  of  the  West  roll  back 
1  in  huge  billows  from  the  Missouri  bluffs,  and 
ripple  gently  on,  to  melt  at  last  into  the  level  grassy 
plains  sloping  away  to  the  foothills  of  the  Rocky- 
Mountains.  Up  and  down  these  land-waves,  and 
across  these  ripples,  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail,  the 
slender  pathway  of  a  wilderness  -  bridging  com- 
merce, led  out  toward  the  great  Southwest — a 
thousand  weary  miles — to  end  at  last,  where  the 
narrow  thoroughfare  reached  the  primitive  hos- 
telry at  the  corner  of  the  plaza  in  the  heart  of  the 
capital  of  a  Spanish-Mexican  demesne. 

It  was  a  strange  old  highway,  tying  the  western 
frontier  of  a  new,  self-reliant  American  civiliza- 
tion to  the  eastern  limit  of  an  autocratic  European 
offshoot,  grafted  upon  an  ancient  Indian  stock  of 
the  Western  Hemisphere.  In  language,  national- 
ity, social  code,  political  faith,  and  prevailing 

36 


THE   WIDENING   HORIZON 

spiritual  creed,  the  terminals  of  this  highway  were 
as  unlike  as  their  geographical  naming.  For  the 
trail  began  at  Independence,  in  Missouri,  and  ended 
at  Santa  Fe,  the  "City  of  the  Holy  Faith,"  in  New 
Mexico. 

The  little  trading  town  of  Independence  was  a 
busy  place  in  the  frontier  years  of  the  Middle  West. 
Ungentle  and  unlovely  as  it  was,  it  was  the  great 
gateway  between  the  river  traffic  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  plains  commerce  of  the  far  Southwest  on 
the  other.  At  the  wharf  at  Westport,  only  a  few 
miles  away,  the  steamers  left  their  cargoes  of  flour 
and  bacon,  coffee  and  calicoes,  jewelry  and  sugar — 
whatever  might  have  a  market  value  to  merchants 
beyond  the  desert  lands.  And  here  these  same 
steamers  took  on  furs,  and  silver  bullion,  and  such 
other  produce  of  the  mountains  and  mines  and 
open  plains  as  the  opulently  laden  caravans  had 
toiled  through  long  days,  overland,  to  bring  to  the 
river's  wharf. 

To-day  the  same  old  gateway  stands  as  of  yore. 
But  it  may  be  given  only  to  men  who  have  seen 
what  I  have  seen,  to  know  how  that  our  Kansas 
City,  the  Beautiful,  could  grow  up  from  that  old 
wilderness  outpost  of  commerce  threescore  and 
more  years  ago. 

The  Clarenden  store  was  the  busiest  spot  in  the 
center  of  this  busy  little  town.  Goods  from  both 
lines  of  trade  entered  and  cleared  here.  In  front 
of  the  building  three  Conestoga  wagons  with  stout 
mule  teams  stood  ready.  A  fourth  wagon,  the 
Dearborn  carriage  of  that  time,  filled  mostly 

37 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

with  bedding,  clothing,  and  the  few  luxuries 
a  long  camping  -  out  journey  may  indulge  in, 
waited  only  for  a  team,  and  we  would  be  off 
to  the  plains. 

Jondo  and  Bill  Banney  were  busy  with  the  last 
things  to  be  done  before  we  started.  Aunty 
Boone  sat  on  a  pile  of  pelts  inside  the  store,  smok- 
ing her  pipe.  Beverly  and  Mat  stood  waiting 
in  the  big  doorway,  while  I  sat  on  a  barrel  outside, 
because  my  ankle  was  still  a  bit  stiff.  A  crowd  had 
gathered  before  the  store  to  see  us  off.  It  was  not 
such  a  company  as  the  soldier-men  at  the  fort. 
The  outlaw,  the  loafer,  the  drunkard,  the  ruffian, 
the  gambler,  and  the  trickster  far  outnumbered  the 
stern-faced  men  of  affairs.  When  the  balance 
turns  the  other  way  the  frontier  disappears. 
Mingling  with  these  was  a  pale-faced  invalid  now 
and  then,  with  the  well-appointed  new  arrivals 
from  the  East. 

"What  are  we  waiting  for,  Bev?"  I  asked,  as  the 
street  filled  with  men. 

"Got  to  get  another  span  of  moolies  for  our 
baby-cart.  Uncle  Esmond  hadn't  counted  on  the 
nurse  and  the  cook  going,  you  know,  but  he  rigged 
this  littler  wagon  out  in  a  twinkle." 

"That's  the  family  carriage,  drawn  by  spirited 
steeds.  Us  children  are  to  ride  in  it,  with  Daniel 
Boone  to  help  with  the  driving,"  Mat  added. 

Just  then  Esmond  Clarenden  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"How  soon  do  you  start,  Clarenden?"  some  one 
in  the  crowd  inquired. 

38 


THE    WIDENING    HORIZON 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a  pair  of  well-broken 
mules, "  he  replied.  ' '  I'm  looking  for  the  man  who 
has  them  to  sell  quick.  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"What's  your  great  rush?"  a  well-dressed 
stranger  asked.  "They  tell  me  things  look 
squally  out  West." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  my  being  in  a  hurry 
then,"  Uncle  Esmond  returned. 

"They  ain't  but  three  men  of  you,  is  they? 
WTiat  do  you  want  of  more  mules?"  put  in  an 
inquisitive  idler  of  the  trouble-loving  class  who 
sooner  or  later  turn  arguments  into  bitter  brawls. 

"These  three  children  and  the  cook  in  there 
have  this  wagon.  They  are  all  fair  drivers,  if  I  can 
get  the  right  mules,"  my  uncle  said. 

Women  and  children  did  not  cross  the  plains  in 
those  days,  nor  could  public  welfare  allow  that  so 
valuable  a  piece  of  property  as  Aunty  Boone 
would  be  in  the  slave-market  should  be  lost  to 
commerce,  and  the  storm  of  protest  that  followed 
would  have  overcome  a  less  determined  man.  It 
was  not  on  account  of  sympathy  for  the  weak  and 
defenseless  that  called  out  all  this  abuse,  but  the 
lawless  spirit  that  stirs  up  a  mob  on  the  slightest 
excuse. 

I  slid  away  to  the  door,  where,  with  Mat  and 
Beverly,  I  watched  Esmond  Clarenden,  who  was 
listening  with  his  good-natured  smile  to  all  of  that 
loud  street  talk. 

"No  man's  life  is  insurable  in  these  troublesome 
times,  with  our  troops  right  now  down  in  Mexico," 
a  suave  Southern  trader  urged.  "Better  sell  your 
*  39 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

slave  and  put  that  nice  little  gal  in  a  boardin'- 
school  somewhere  in  the  South." 

"I'll  give  you  a  mighty  good  bargain  for  that 
wench,  Clarenden.  She  might  be  worth  a  clare 
fortune  in  New  Orleans.  What  d'ye  say  to  a  cool 
thousand?"  another  man  declared,  with  a  slow 
Southern  drawl. 

Aunty  Boone  took  the  pipe  from  her  lips  and 
looked  at  the  stranger. 

"Y' would!"  she  grunted,  stretching  her  big 
right  hand  across  her  lap,  like  a  huge  paw  with 
claws  ready  underneath. 

"Them  plains  Injuns  never  was  more  hostile 
than  they  air  right  now.  I  just  got  in  from  the 
mountains  an'  I  know.  An*  they're  bein'  set 
on  by  more  hostile  Mexican  devils,  and  political 
intrigs"  a  bearded  mountaineer  trapper  argued. 

"'Sides  all  that,"  interposed  the  suave  Southern 
gentleman,  "it's  too  early  in  the  spring.  Freight- 
in's  bound  to  be  delayed  by  rains — and  a  nice  little 
gal  with  only  a  nigger — "  He  was  not  quite  him- 
self, and  he  did  not  try  to  say  more. 

"Seems  like  some  of  these  gentlemen  consider 
you  are  some  sort  of  a  fool,"  a  tall,  lean  Yankee 
youth  observed,  as  he  listened  to  the  babble. 

I  had  climbed  back  on  the  barrel  again  to  see 
the  crowd  better,  and  I  stared  at  the  last  speaker. 
His  voice  was  not  unpleasant,  but  he  appeared 
pale  and  weak  and  spiritless  in  that  company  of 
tanned,  rugged  men.  Evidently  he  was  an  in- 
valid in  search  of  health.  We  children  had  seen 
many  invalids,  from  time  to  time,  at  the  fort — 

40 


THE   WIDENING   HORIZON 

harmless  folk,  who  came  to  fuss,  and  stayed  to 
flourish,  in  our  gracious  land  of  the  open  air. 

"You  are  a  dam'  fool,"  roared  a  big  drunken 
loafer  from  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  "An'  I'd  lick 
you  in  a  minnit  if  you  das  step  into  the  middle  of 
the  street  onct.  Ornery  sneak,  to  take  innocent 
children  into  such  perrils.  Come  on  out  here, 
I  tell  ye!" 

A  growl  followed  these  words.  Many  men  in 
that  company  were  less  than  half  sober,  and  utterly 
irresponsible. 

"Le's  jes'  hang  the  fool  storekeepin*  gent  right 
now;  an'  make  a  free-fur-all  holiday.  I'll  begin," 
the  drunken  ruffian  bawled.  He  was  of  the  sort 
that  always  leads  a  mob. 

The  growl  deepened,  for  blood-lust  and  drunk- 
enness go  together. 

Terrified  for  my  uncle's  safety,  I  stood  breath- 
less, staring  at  the  evil-faced  crowd  of  men  going 
suddenly  mad,  without  excuse.  At  the  farthest 
edge  of  the  insipient  mob,  sitting  on  his  horse 
-and  watching  my  uncle's  face  intently,  was  the  very 
Mexican  whom  I  had  twice  seen  at  Fort  Leaven- 
worth.  At  the  drunken  rowdy's  challenge,  I 
thought  that  he  half-lifted  a  threatening  hand. 
But  Esmond  Clarenden  only  smiled,  with  a  mere 
turn  of  his  head  as  if  in  disapproval.  In  that 
minute  I  learned  my  first  lesson  in  handling  ruf- 
fians. I  knew  that  my  uncle  was  not  afraid,  and 
because  of  that  my  faith  in  his  power  to  take  care 
of  himself  came  back. 

"I  want  to  leave  here  in  half  an  hour.  If 
41 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

you  have  any  good  plains-broke  mules  you  will 
sell  for  cash,  I  can  do  business  with  you  right 
now.  If  not,  the  sooner  you  leave  this  place  the 
better." 

He  lifted  his  small,  shapely  hand  unclenched,  his 
good-natured  smile  and  gentlemanly  bearing  un- 
changed, but  his  low  voice  was  stronger  than  all 
the  growls  of  the  crowd  that  fell  back  like  whipped 
dogs. 

As  he  spoke  a  horse-dealer,  seeing  the  gathering 
before  the  store,  came  galloping  up. 

"I'm  your  man.  Money  talks  so  I  can  under- 
stand it.  Wait  five  minutes  and  ten  seconds  and 
I'll  bring  a  whole  strand  of  mules." 

A  rattling  of  wagons  and  roar  of  voices  at  the 
far  end  of  the  street  told  of  the  arrival  of  a  com- 
pany coming  in  from  the  wharf  at  Westport,  and 
the  crowd  whirled  about  and  made  haste  toward 
the  next  scene  of  interest. 

Only  two  men  remained  behind,  the  tall  New 
England  youth  and  the  Mexican  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  street  sitting  motionless  on  his  horse. 
A  moment  later  he  was  gone,  and  the  street  was 
empty  save  for  the  pale-faced  invalid  who  had 
come  over  to  the  doorway  where  Mat  and  Beverly 
and  I  waited  together. 

"Why  don't  you  youngsters  stay  home  with 
your  mother,  or  is  she  going  with  you?"  he  asked, 
a  gleam  of  interest  lighting  his  dull  face  as  he 
looked  at  Mat  Nivers. 

"We  haven't  any  of  us  got  a  mother,"  Mat  re- 
plied, timidly,  lifting  her  gray  eyes  to  his. 

42 


"Mother!  Ain't  you  all  one  family?"  the  young 
man  questioned  in  surprise. 

"No,  we  are  three  orphan  children  that  Uncle 
Esmond  has  adopted  all  our  lives,  I  guess." 
Beverly  informed  him. 

A  wave  of  sympathy  swept  over  his  face. 

"You  poor,  lonely,  unhappy  cubs!  You've 
never  had  a  mother  to  love  you!"  he  exclaimed, 
in  kindly  pity. 

"We  aren't  poor  nor  lonely  nor  unhappy.  We 
have  always  had  Uncle  Esmond  and  we  didn't 
need  a  mother,"  I  exclaimed,  earnestly. 

The  young  man  stared  at  me  as  I  spoke. 

"What's  he,  a  bachelor  or  married  man?"  he 
inquired. 

' '  He  couldn't  be  married  and  keep  us,  I  reckon, 
and  he's  taking  us  with  him  so  nothing  will 
happen  to  us  while  he's  gone.  He's  really  truly 
Bev's  uncle  and  mine,  but  he's  just  the  same 
as  uncle  to  Mat,  who  hasn't  anybody  else,"  I 
declared,  enthusiastically.  Uncle  Esmond  was 
my  pride,  and  I  meant  that  he  should  be  fully 
appreciated. 

The  Yankee  gazed  at  all  three  of  us,  his  eyes 
resting  longest  on  Mat's  bright  face.  The  list- 
lessness  left  his  own  that  minute  and  a  new  light 
shone  on  his  countenance.  But  when  he  turned 
to  my  uncle  the  seeming  lack  of  all  interest  in 
living  returned  to  his  face  again. 

"Say,"  he  drawled,  looking  down  at  the  stub- 
born little  merchant  from  his  slim  six  feet  of  alti- 
tude, "you  are  such  a  dam'  fool  as  our  friend,  the 

43 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

tipsy  one,  says,  that  I  believe  I'll  go  along  'cross 
the  plains  with  you,  if  you'll  let  me.  I've  not  got  a 
darned  thing  to  lose  out  there  but  a  sick  carcass 
that  I'm  pretty  tired  of  looking  after,"  he  went  on, 
wearily.  "I  reckon  I  might  as  well  see  the  fun 
through  if  I  never  set  a  hoof  on  old  Plymouth 
Rock  again.  My  granddaddy  was  a  minute-man 
at  Lexington.  Say" —  he  paused,  and  his  sober 
face  turned  sad — "if  all  the  bean-eaters  who  claim 
their  grandpas  were  minute-men  tell  the  truth, 
there  wasn't  no  glory  in  winning  at  Lexington, 
there  was  such  a  tremendous  sight  of  'em.  I've 
heard  about  eight  million  men  myself  make  the 
same  claim.  But  my  granddad  was  the  real 
article  in  the  minute-men  business.  And  I've 
always  admired  his  grit  most  of  any  man  in  the 
world.  He  was  about  your  shape,  I  reckon,  from 
his  picture  that  old  man  Copley  got  out.  But, 
man!  he  wasn't  a  patchin'  on  your  coat-sleeve. 
You  are  the  preposterous-est  unlawful-est  in- 
famous-est  man  I  ever  saw.  It's  just  straight 
murder  and  suicide  you  are  bent  on,  takin'  this 
awful  chance  of  plungin'  into  a  warrin',  snake- 
eatin'  country  like  New  Mexico,  and  I  like  you 
for  it.  Will  you  take  me  as  an  added  burden? 
If  you  will,  I'll  deposit  the  price  of  my  state-room 
right  now.  I've  got  only  a  little  wad  of  money 
to  get  well  on  or  die  on.  I  can  spend  it  either 
way — not  much  difference  which.  My  name  is 
Krane,  Rex  Krane,  and  in  spite  of  such  a  floopsy 
name  I  hail  from  Boston,  U.  S.  A." 

There  was  a  hopeless  sagging  about  the  young 
44 


THE   WIDENING   HORIZON 

man's  mouth,  redeemed  only  by  the  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 

Esmond  Clarenden  gave  him  a  steady  measuring 
look.  He  estimated  men  easily,  and  rarely  failed 
to  estimate  truly. 

"I'll  take  you  on  your  face  value,"  he  answered, 
"and  if  you  want  to  turn  back  there  will  be  a 
chance  to  do  it  out  a  hundred  miles  or  more  on 
the  trail.  You  can  try  it  that  far  and  see  how  you 
like  it.  I'll  furnish  you  your  board.  There  are 
always  plenty  of  bedrooms  on  the  ground  floor 
and  in  one  of  the  wagons  on  rainy  nights.  You 
can  take  a  shift  driving  a  team  now  and  then,  and 
every  able-bodied  man  has  to  do  guard  duty  some 
of  the  time.  You  understand  the  dangers  of  the 
situation  by  this  time.  Here  comes  my  man," 
he  added,  as  the  horse-dealer  appeared,  leading  a 
string  of  mules  up  the  street. 

"Here's  your  critters.  Take  your  choice,"  the 
dealer  urged. 

"I'll  take  the  brown  one,"  my  uncle  replied, 
promptly.  And  the  bargain  was  closed. 

Mat  and  Beverly  and  I  had  already  climbed  into 
our  wagon,  and  Aunty  Boone  appeared  now  at  the 
store  door,  ready  to  join  us. 

"You  takin'  that  nigger?"  the  trader  asked. 

"Yes.  Lead  out  your  best  offer  now.  I  want 
another  mule,"  Esmond  Clarenden  replied. 

But  the  horse-merchant  proved  to  be  harder  to 
deal  with  than  the  crowd  had  been.  The  foolish 
risk  of  losing  so  valuable  a  piece  of  property  as 
Daniel  Boone  ought  to  be  in  the  slave-market 

45 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

taxed  his  powers  of  understanding,  profanity,  and 
abuse. 

"Cussin*  solid,  an'  in  streaks,"  Aunty  Boone 
chuckled,  softly,  as  she  listened  to  him  unmoved. 

Equally  unmoved  was  Esmond  Clarenden. 
But  his  genial  smile  and  diplomatic  power  of 
keeping  still  did  not  prevent  him  from  being  as 
set  as  the  everlasting  hills  in  his  own  purpose. 

"This  here  critter  is  all  I'll  sell  you,"  the  trader 
declared  at  last,  pulling  a  big  white-eyed  dun 
animal  out  of  the  group.  "An*  nobody's  goin* 
to  drive  her  easy." 

"I'll  take  it,"  Uncle  Esmond  said,  promptly, 
and  the  vicious-looking  beast  was  brought  to 
where  Aunty  Boone  stood  beside  the  wagon- 
tongue. 

It  was  a  clear  case  of  hate  at  first  sight,  for  the 
mule  began  to  plunge  and  squeal  the  instant  it  saw 
her.  The  woman  hesitated  not  a  minute,  but 
lifting  her  big  ham-like  foot,  she  gave  it  one  broad- 
side kick  that  it  must  have  mistaken  for  a  thun- 
derbolt, and  in  that  low  purr  of  hers,  that  might 
frighten  a  jungle  tiger,  she  laid  down  the  law  of  the 
journey. 

"You  tote  me  to  Santy  Fee,  or  be  a  dead  mule. 
Take  yo'  choice  right  now!  Git  up!" 

For  fifty  days  the  one  dependable,  docile  servant 
of  the  Clarendens  was  the  big  dun  mule,  as  gentle 
and  kitten-like  as  a  mule  can  be. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  opposing  conditions  and 
rabble  protest  and  doleful  prophecy  and  the  as- 
surance of  certain  perils,  we  turned  our  faces  tow- 

46 


THE   WIDENING    HORIZON 

ard  the  unfriendly  land  of  the  sunset  skies,  the  open 
West  of  my  childish  day-dreams. 

The  prairies  were  splashed  with  showers  and  the 
warm  black  soil  was  fecund  with  growths  as  our 
little  company  followed  the  windings  of  the  old 
trail  in  that  wondrous  springtime  of  my  own 
life's  spring.  There  were  eight  of  us:  Clarenden, 
the  merchant;  Jondo,  the  big  plainsman;  Bill 
Banney,  whom  love  of  adventure  had  lured  from 
the  blue  grass  of  Kentucky  to  the  prairie-grass 
of  the  West;  Rex  Krane,  the  devil-may-care 
invalid  from  Boston;  and  the  quartet  of  us 
in  the  "baby  cab,"  as  Beverly  had  christened 
the  family  wagon.  Uncle  Esmond  had  added 
three  swift  ponies  to  our  equipment,  which  Jondo 
and  Bill  found  time  to  tame  for  riding  as  we  went 
along. 

We  met  wagon-trains,  scouts,  and  solitary 
trappers  going  east,  but  so  far  as  we  knew  our 
little  company  wras  the  only  westward-facing  one 
on  all  the  big  prairies. 

"It's  just  like  living  in  a  fairy-story,  isn't  it, 
Gail?"  Beverly  said  to  me  one  evening,  as  we 
rounded  a  low  hill  and  followed  a  deep  little  creek 
down  to  a  shallow  fording-place.  "All  we  want  is 
a  real  princess  and  a  real  giant.  Look  at  these 
big  trees  all  you  can,  for  Jondo  says  pretty  soon 
we  won't  see  trees  at  all." 

"Maybe  we'll  have  Indians  instead  of  giants,"  I 
suggested.  "When  do  you  suppose  we'll  begin  to 
see  the  real  bad  Indians ;  not  just  Osages  and  Kaws 

47 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

and  sneaky  little   Otoes  and   Pot'wat'mies  like 
we've  seen  all  our  lives?" 

"Sooner  than  we  expect,"  Beverly  replied. 
"Could  Mat  Nivers  ever  be  a  real  princess,  do  you 
reckon?" 

"I  know  she  won't,"  I  said,  firmly,  the  vision  of 
that  fateful  day  at  Fort  Leavenworth  coming  back 
as  I  spoke — the  vision  of  level  green  prairies,  with 
gray  rocks  and  misty  mountain  peaks  beyond. 
And  somewhere,  between  green  prairies  and  misty 
peaks,  a  sweet  child  face  with  big  dark  eyes  looking 
straight  into  mine.  I  must  have  been  a  dreamer. 
And  in  my  young  years  I  wondered  often  why 
things  should  be  so  real  to  me  that  nobody  else 
could  ever  understand. 

"I  used  to  think  long  ago  at  the  fort  that  I'd 
marry  Mat  some  day,"  Beverly  said,  reminiscently, 
as  if  he  were  looking  across  a  lapse  of  years  instead 
of  days. 

"So  did  I,"  I  declared.  "But  I  don't  want  to 
now.  Maybe  our  princess  will  be  at  the  end  of  the 
trail,  Bev,  a  real  princess.  Still,  I  love  Mat  just 
as  if  she  were  my  sister,"  I  hastened  to  add. 

"So  do  I,"  Beverly  responded,  heartily. 

A  little  grain  of  pity  for  her  loss  of  prestige  was 
mingling  with  our  subconscious  feeling  of  a  need 
for  her  help  in  the  day  of  the  giant,  if  not  in  the 
reign  of  the  princess. 

We  were  trudging  along  behind  our  wagon 
toward  the  camping-place  for  the  night,  which  lay 
beyond  the  crossing  of  the  stream.  We  had  lived 
much  out  of  doors  at  Fort  Leavenworth,  but  the 


THE    WIDENING    HORIZON 

real  out  of  doors  of  this  journey  was  telling  on  us 
already  in  our  sturdy,  up-leaping  strength,  to 
match  each  new  hardship.  We  ate  like  wolves, 
slept  like  dead  things,  and  forgot  what  it  meant  to 
be  tired.  And  as  our  muscles  hardened  our 
minds  expanded.  We  were  no  longer  little  chil- 
dren. Youth  had  set  its  seal  upon  us  on  the  day 
when  our  company  had  started  out  from  Inde- 
pendence toward  the  great  plains  of  the  Middle 
West.  Little  care  had  we  for  the  responsibility 
and  perils  of  such  a  journey;  and  because  our 
thoughts  were  buoyant  our  bodies  were  vigorous. 

Our  camp  that  night  was  under  wide-spreading 
elm-trees  whose  roots  struck  deep  in  the  deep 
black  loam.  After  supper  Mat  and  Beverly 
went  down  to  fish  in  the  muddy  creek.  Fishing 
was  Beverly's  sport  and  solace  everywhere.  I  was 
to  follow  them  as  soon  as  I  had  finished  my  little 
chores.  The  men  were  scattered  about  the  valley 
and  the  camp  was  deserted.  Something  in  the 
woodsy  greenness  of  the  quiet  spot  made  it  seem 
like  home  to  me — the  log  house  among  the  elms 
and  cottonwoods  at  the  fort.  As  I  finished  my 
task  I  wondered  how  a  big,  fine  house  such  as  I 
had  seen  in  pictures  would  look  nestled  among 
these  beautiful  trees.  I  wanted  a  home  here  some 
day,  a  real  home.  It  was  such  a  pleasant  place 
even  in  its  loneliness. 

To  the  west  the  ground  sloped  up  gently  toward 
the  horizon-line,  shutting  off  the  track  of  the  trail 
beyond  the  ridge.  A  sudden  longing  came  over 
me  to  see  what  to-morrow's  journey  would  offer, 

49 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

bringing  back  the  sense  of  being  sltut  in  that  had 
made  me  lose  interest  in  fishes  that  wouldn't  play 
leap-frog  on  the  sand-bars.  And  with  it  came  a 
longing  to  be  alone. 

Instead  of  following  Mat  and  Beverly  to  the 
creek  I  went  out  to  the  top  of  the  swell  and  stood 
long  in  the  April  twilight,  looking  beyond  the  rim 
of  the  valley  toward  the  darkening  prairies  with 
the  great  splendor  of  the  sunset's  afterglow  deep- 
ening to  richest  crimson  above  the  purpling 
shadows. 

Oh,  many  a  time  since  that  night  have  I  looked 
upon  the  Kansas  plains  and  watched  the  grandeur 
of  coloring  that  only  the  Almighty  artist  ever 
paints  for  human  eyes.  And  always  I  come  back, 
in  memory,  to  that  April  evening.  The  soul  of  a 
man  must  have  looked  out  through  the  little  boy's 
eyes  on  that  night,  and  a  new  mile-stone  was  set 
there,  making  a  landmark  in  my  life  trail.  For 
when  I  turned  toward  the  darkening  east  and  the 
shadowy  camp  where  the  evening  fires  gleamed 
redly  in  the  dusk,  I  knew  then,  as  well  as  I  know 
now,  if  I  could  only  have  put  it  into  words,  that 
I  was  not  the  same  little  boy  who  had  run  up  the 
long  slope  to  see  what  lay  next  in  to-morrow's 
journey. 

I  walked  slowly  back  to  the  camp  and  sat  down 
beside  Esmond  Clarenden. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Gail?"  he  asked, 
as  I  stared  at  the  fire. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  would  happen  next,"  I 
replied. 

50 


THE    WIDENING    HORIZON 

Jondo  was  lying  at  full  length  on  the  grass,  his 
elbow  bent,  and  his  hand  supporting  his  head. 
What  a  wonderful  head  it  was  with  its  crown  of 
softly  curling  brown  hair! 

"I  wonder  if  we  have  done  wrong  by  the  chil- 
dren, Clarenden,"  the  big  plainsman  said,  slowly. 

Uncle  Esmond  shook  his  head  as  he  replied : 

"I  can't  believe  it.  They  may  not  be  safe 
with  us,  but  we  know  they  would  not  have  been 
safe  without  us." 

Just  then  Beverly  and  Mat  came  racing  up 
from  the  creek  bank. 

"Let  us  stay  up  awhile,"  Mat  pleaded.  "May- 
be we'll  be  less  trouble  some  of  these  days  if  we 
hear  you  talk  about  what's  coming." 

"They  are  right,  Jondo.  Gail  here  wants  to 
know  what  is  coming  next,  and  Mat  wants  a  share 
in  our  councils.  What  do  you  want,  Beverly?" 

"I  want  to  practise  shooting  on  horseback.  I 
can  hit  a  mark  now  standing  still.  I  want  to  do  it 
on  the  run,"  Beverly  replied. 

I  can  see  now  the  earnest  look  in  Esmond 
Clarenden's  eyes  as  he  listened.  I've  seen  it  in  a 
mother's  eyes  more  than  once  since  then,  as  she 
kissed  her  eldest-born  and  watched  it  toddle  off 
alone  on  its  first  day  of  school ;  or  held  her  peace, 
when,  breaking  home  ties,  the  son  of  her  heart 
bade  her  good-by  to  begin  life  for  himself  in  the 
world  outside. 

The  last  light  of  day  was  lost  over  the  western 
ridge.  The  moon  was  beginning  to  swell  big  and 
yellow  through  the  trees.  Twilight  was  darkening 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

into  night.  Bill  Banney  and  Rex  Krane  had 
joined  us  now,  for  every  hour  we  were  learning  to 
keep  closer  together.  Jondo  threw  more  wood  on 
the  fire,  and  we  nestled  about  it  in  snug,  homey 
fashion  as  if  we  were  to  listen  to  a  fairy-tale — three 
children  slipping  fast  out  of  childhood  into  the 
stern,  hard  plains  life  that  tried  men's  souls.  As 
we  listened,  the  older  men  told  of  the  perils  as  well 
as  the  fascinating  adventures  of  trail  life,  that  we 
might  understand  what  lay  before  us  in  the  un- 
known days.  And  then  they  told  us  stories  of  the 
plains,  and  of  the  quaint  historic  things  of  Santa 
Fe;  of  El  Palacio,  home  of  all  the  Governors  of 
New  Mexico ;  an  Indian  pueblo  first,  it  may  have 
been  standing  there  when  William  the  Norman 
conquered  Harold  of  the  Saxon  dynasty  of  Eng- 
land; or  further  back  when  Charlemagne  was 
hanging  heathen  by  the  great  great  gross  to  make 
good  Christians  of  them;  or  even  when  old  Julius 
Caesar  came  and  saw  and  conquered,  on  either 
side  of  the  Rubicon,  this  same  old  structure  may 
have  sheltered  rulers  in  a  world  unknown.  They 
told  us  of  the  old,  old  church  of  San  Miguel,  a 
citadel  for  safety  from  the  savage  foes  of  Spain, 
a  sanctuary  ever  for  the  sinful  and  sorrowing  ones. 
And  of  the  Plaza — sacred  ground  whereon  by 
ceremonial  form  had  been  established  deeds  that 
should  change  the  destinies  of  tribes  and  shape 
the  trend  of  national  pride  and  power  in  a  new 
continent.  And  of  La  Garita,  place  of  execu- 
tion, facing  whose  blind  wall  the  victims  of  the 
Spanish  rule  made  their  last  stand,  and,  help- 


THE   WIDENING   HORIZON 

less,  fell  pierced  by  the  bullets  of  the  Spanish 
soldiery. 

And  we  children  looked  into  the  dying  camp- 
fire  and  builded  there  our  own  castles  in  Spain, 
and  hoped  that  that  old  flag  to  which  we  had 
thrown  good-by  kisses  such  a  little  while  ago 
would  one  day  really  wave  above  old  Santa  Fe  and 
make  it  ours  to  keep.  For,  young  as  we  were,  the 
flag  already  symbolized  to  us  the  protecting  power 
of  a  nation  strong  and  gentle  and  generous. 

"The  first  and  last  law  of  the  trail  is  to  'hold 
fast, ' "  Jondo  said,  as  we  broke  up  the  circle  about 
the  camp-fire. 

"If  you  can  keep  that  law  we  will  take  you  into 
full  partnership  to-night,"  Esmond  Clarenden 
added,  and  we  knew  that  he  meant  what  he  said. 


IV 

THE    MAN    IN   THE    DARK 

A  stone's  throw  from  either  hand, 
From  that  well-ordered  road  we  tread, 
And  all  the  world  is  wide  and  strange. 

— KEPLING 

&  shall  come  to  the  parting  of  the  ways  to- 
night  if  we  make  good  time,  Krane,"  Es- 
mond Clarenden  said  to  the  young  Bostonian,  as 
we  rested  at  noon  beside  the  trail.  "To-night  we 
camp  at  Council  Grove  and  from  there  on  there  is 
no  turning  back.  I  had  hoped  to  find  a  big  crowd 
waiting  to  start  off  from  that  place.  But  every- 
body we  have  met  coming  in  says  that  there  are  no 
freighters  going  west  now.  Usually  there  is  no 
risk  in  coming  alone  from  Council  Grove  to  the 
Missouri  River,  and  there  is  always  opportunity 
for  company  at  this  end  of  the  trail." 

We  were  sitting  in  a  circle  under  the  thin  shade 
of  some  cotton  wood -trees  beside  a  little  stream; 
the  air  of  noon,  hot  above  our  heads,  was  tempered 
with  a  light  breeze  from  the  southwest.  As  my 
uncle  spoke,  Rex  glanced  over  at  Mat  Nivers, 
sitting  beside  him,  and  then  gazed  out  thought- 
fully across  the  stream.  I  had  never  thought  her 

54 


THE    MAN   IN   THE    DARK 

pretty  before.  But  now  her  face,  tanned  by  the 
sun  and  wind,  had  a  richer  glow  on  cheek  and  lip. 
Her  damp  hair  lay  in  little  wavelets  about  her 
temples,  and  her  big,  sunny,  gray  eyes  were  always 
her  best  feature. 

Girls  made  their  own  dresses  on  the  frontier,  and 
I  suppose  that  anywhere  else  Mat  would  have  ap- 
peared old-fashioned  in  the  neat,  comfortable  little 
gowns  of  durable  gingham  and  soft  woolen  stuffs 
that  she  made  for  herself.  But  somehow  in  all 
that  long  journey  she  was  the  least  travel-soiled  of 
the  whole  party. 

At  my  uncle's  words  she  looked  up  question- 
ingly  and  I  saw  the  bloom  deepen  on  her  cheek 
as  she  met  the  young  man's  eyes.  Somebody  else 
saw  that  shadow  of  a  blush — Bill  Banney  lying  on 
the  ground  beside  me,  and  although  he  pulled  his 
hat  cautiously  over  his  face,  I  thought  he  was 
listening  for  the  answer. 

The  young  New-Englander  stared  long  at  the 
green  prairie  before  he  spoke.  I  never  knew 
whether  it  was  ignorance,  or  a  lack  of  energy,  that 
was  responsible  for  his  bad  grammar  in  those 
early  days,  for  Rex  Krane  was  no  sham  invalid. 
The  lines  on  his  young  face  told  of  suffering,  and 
the  thin,  bony  hands  showed  bodily  weakness. 
At  length  he  turned  to  my  uncle. 

"I  started  out  sort  of  reckless  on  this  trip,"  he 
said,  slowly.  ' '  I'm  nearly  twenty  and  never  been 
worth  a  dang  to  anybody  anywhere  on  God's 
earth;  so  I  thought  I  might  as  well  be  where 
things  looked  interestin'.  But" — he  hesitated — 

5  55 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"I'm  gettin'  a  lot  stronger  every  day,  a  whole  lot 
stronger.  Mebby  I'd  be  of  some  use  afterwhile — 
I  don't  know,  though.  I  reckon  I'd  better  wait 
till  we  get  to  that  Council  Grove  place.  Sounds 
like  a  nice  locality  to  rest  and  think  in.  Are  you 
goin'  on,  anyhow,  Clarenden,  crowd  or  no  crowd?" 

"Though  the  heavens  fall,"  my  uncle  answered, 
simply. 

Jondo  had  turned  quickly  to  hear  this  reply  and 
a  great  light  leaped  into  his  deep-set  blue  eyes.  I 
glanced  over  at  Aunty  Boone,  sitting  apart  from 
us,  as  she  ever  chose  to  do,  her  own  eyes  dull,  as 
they  always  were  when  she  saw  keenest;  and  I 
remembered  how,  back  at  Fort  Leavenworth,  she 
had  commented  on  this  journey,  saying:  "They 
tote  together  always,  an'  they're  totin'  now." 
Child  though  I  was,  I  felt  that  a  something  more 
than  the  cargo  of  goods  was  leading  my  uncle  to 
Santa  Fe.  What  I  did  not  understand  was  his 
motive  for  taking  Beverly  and  Mat  and  me  with 
him.  I  had  been  satisfied  before  just  to  go,  but 
now  I  wanted  very  much  to  know  why  I  was  going. 

Council  Grove  by  the  Neosho  River  was  the  end 
of  civilization  for  the  freighter.  Beyond  it  the  wil- 
derness spread  its  untamed  lengths,  and  excepting 
Bent's  Fort  far  up  the  Arkansas  River  on  the  line 
of  the  first  old  trail,  rarely  followed  now,  it  held 
not  a  sign  of  civilization  for  the  traveler  until  he 
should  reach  the  first  outposts  of  the  Mexican 
almost  in  the  shadow  of  Santa  Fe.  It  is  no  wonder 
that  wagon-trains  mobilized  here,  waiting  for  an 
increase  in  numbers  before  they  dared  to  start  on 

56 


THE    MAN    IN   THE    DARK 

westward.  And  now  there  were  no  trains  waiting 
for  our  coming.  Only  a  gripping  necessity  could 
have  led  a  man  like  Esmond  Clarenden  to  take  the 
trail  alone  in  the  certain  perils  of  the  plains  during 
the  middle  '40*8.  I  did  not  know  until  long  after- 
ward how  brave  was  the  loving  heart  that  beat  in 
that  little  merchant's  bosom.  A  devotee  of  ease 
and  refinement,  he  walked  the  prairie  trails  un- 
afraid, and  made  the  desert  serve  his  will. 

The  dusk  of  evening  had  fallen  long  before  we 
pitched  camp  that  night  under  the  big  oak-trees 
in  the  Neosho  River  valley  outside  of  the  little 
trading-post.  Up  in  the  village  a  light  or  two 
gleamed  faintly.  From  somewhere  in  the  dark- 
ness came  the  sound  of  a  violin,  mingling  with  loud 
talking  and  boisterous  laughter  in  a  distant 
drinking-den.  It  would  be  some  time  until  moon- 
rise,  and  the  shadowy  places  thickened  to  black- 
ness. 

In  fair  weather  all  of  us  except  Mat  Nivers  slept 
in  the  open.  On  stormy  nights  the  younger  men 
occupied  one  of  the  wagons,  Jondo  and  Beverly 
another,  and  my  uncle  and  myself  the  third.  Mat 
had  the  "baby-cab"  as  Beverly  called  it,  with 
Aunty  Boone  underneath  it.  The  ground  was 
Aunty  Boone's  kingdom.  She  sat  upon  it,  ate 
from  it,  slept  on  it,  and  seemed  no  more  soiled 
than  a  snake  would  be  by  the  contact  with  it. 

"Some  day  I  goes  plop  under  it,  and  be  ground 
myself,"  she  used  to  say.  "Good  black  soil  I 
make,  too,"  she  always  added,  with  her  low 
chuckle. 

57 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

To-night  we  were  all  in  the  wagons,  for  the 
spring  rains  had  made  the  Neosho  valley  damp  and 
muddy.  I  was  just  on  the  edge  of  dreamless 
slumber  when  a  low  voice  that  seemed  to  cut  the 
darkness  caught  my  ear. 

"Cla'nden!  Cla'nden!"  it  hissed,  softly. 

My  uncle  slipped  noiselessly  out  to  where 
Aunty  Boone  stood,  her  head  so  near  to  the  canvas 
wagon-cover  inside  of  which  I  lay  that  I  could  hear 
all  that  was  said. 

She  was  always  a  night  prowler.  What  other 
women  learn  now  from  the  evening  newspaper  or 
from  neighborly  gossip  she,  being  created  without 
a  sense  of  fear,  went  forth  in  her  time  and  gath- 
ered at  first  hand. 

"I  been  prospectin'  up  'round  the  saloon, 
Cla'nden.  They's  a  nasty  mess  of  Mexicans  in 
town,  all  gettin'  drunk." 

Then  I  heard  a  faint  rustle  of  the  bushes  and  I 
knew  that  the  woman  was  slipping  away  to  her 
place  under  the  wagon.  I  remembered  the  Mexi- 
can whom  I  had  last  seen  across  the  street  from  the 
Clarenden  store  in  Independence.  These  were 
bad  Mexicans,  as  Aunty  Boone  had  said,  and  that 
man  had  seemed  in  a  silent  way  a  friend  of  my 
uncle.  I  wondered  what  would  happen  next.  It 
soon  happened.  My  uncle  Esmond  came  inside 
the  wagon  and  called,  softly : 

"Gail,  wake  up." 

"I'm  awake,"  I  replied,  in  a  half- whisper,  as 
alert  as  a  mystery-loving  boy  could  be. 

"Slip  over  to  Jondo  and  tell  him  there  are 
58 


THE    MAN    IN   THE    DARK 

Mexicans  in  town,  and  I'm  going  across  the  river 
to  see  what's  up.  Tell  him  to  wake  up  every- 
body and  have  them  stay  in  the  wagons  till  I  get 
back." 

He  slid  away  and  the  shadows  ate  him.  I  fol- 
lowed as  far  as  Jondo's  wagon,  and  gave  my  mes- 
sage. As  I  came  back  something  seemed  to  slip 
away  before  me  and  disappear  somewhere.  I 
dived  into  our  wagon  and  crouched  down,  waiting 
with  beating  heart  for  Uncle  Esmond  to  come 
back.  Once  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  feet  on  the  trail  to  the  eastward,  but  I 
was  not  sure. 

All  was  still  and  black  in  the  little  camp  for  a 
long  time,  and  then  Esmond  Clarenden  and  Rex 
Krane  crept  into  the  wagon  and  dropped  the  flap 
behind  them. 

"Krane,  have  you  decided  about  this  trip  yet?" 
Uncle  Esmond  asked.  "If  not,  you'd  better  get 
right  up  into  town  and  forget  us.  You  can't  be 
too  quick  about  it,  either." 

"Ain't  we  going  to  stay  here  a  few  days?  Why 
do  you  want  to  know  to-night?" 

Rex  Krane,  Yankee-like,  met  the  query  with  a 
query. 

"Because  there's  a  pretty  strong  party  of 
Mexican  desperadoes  here  who  are  going  on  east, 
and  they  mean  trouble  for  somebody.  I  shouldn't 
care  to  meet  them  with  our  strength  alone.  They 
are  all  pretty  drunk  now  and  getting  wilder  every 
minute.  Listen  to  that!" 

A  yell  across  the  river  broke  the  night  stillness. 
59 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"There  is  no  telling  how  soon  they  may  be  over 
here,  hunting  for  us.  We  must  get  by  them  some 
way,  for  I  cannot  risk  a  fight  with  them  here. 
Which  chance  will  you  choose,  the  possibility  of 
being  overtaken  by  that  Mexican  gang  going  east, 
or  the  perils  of  the  plains  and  the  hostility  of  New 
Mexico  right  now?  It's  about  as  broad  one  way 
as  the  other  for  safety,  with  staying  here  for  a 
time  as  the  only  middle  course  at  present.  But 
that  is  a  perfectly  safe  one  for  you." 

"I  am  going  on  with  you,"  Rex  Krane  said,  with 
his  slow  Yankee  drawl.  ''When  danger  gets  close, 
then  I  scatter.  There's  more  chance  in  seven 
hundred  miles  to  miss  somethin'  than  there  is  in  a 
hundred  and  fifty.  And  even  a  half -invalid  might 
be  of  some  use.  Say,  Clarenden,  how'd  you  get 
hold  of  this  information  ?  You  turned  in  before  I 
did." 

"Daniel  Boone  went  out  on  scout  duty — self- 
elected.  You  know  she  considers  that  the  earth 
was  made  for  her  to  walk  on  when  she  chooses  to 
use  it  that  way.  She  spied  trouble  ahead  and 
came  back,  and  gave  me  the  key  to  the  west  door 
of  Council  Grove  so  I  could  get  out  early,"  my 
uncle  replied. 

"I  reckoned  as  much,"  Rex  declared. 

In  the  dark  I  could  feel  Esmond  Clarenden  give 
a  start. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  I  saw  the  fat  lady  start  out,  so  I  followed 
her,  but  I  located  the  nest  of  Mexicans  before  she 
did,  and  got  a  good  deal  out  of  their  drunken 

60 


THE    MAN    IN   THE    DARK 

jargon.  And  then  I  cat-footed  it  back  after  a 
snaky-looking,  black  Spaniard  that  seemed  to  be 
following  her.  There  were  three  of  us  in  a  row, 
but  the  devil  hasn't  got  the  hindmost  one,  not  yet 
— that's  me." 

"You  saw  some  one  follow  Daniel  into  camp?" 
my  uncle  broke  in,  anxiously.  But  no  threatening 
peril  ever  hurried  Rex  Krane's  speech. 

"Yes,  and  I  also  followed  some  one;  but  I  lost 
him  in  this  ink-well  of  a  hole,  and  I  was  waitin' 
till  he  left  so  I  could  put  the  cat  out,  an'  shut  the 
door,  when  you  cut  across  the  river.  I've  been 
sittin'  round  now  to  see  that  nothin'  broke  loose 
till  you  got  back.  Meantime,  the  thing  sort  of 
faded  away.  I  heard  a  horse  gallopin'  off  east, 
too.  Mebby  they  are  outpostin'  to  surround  our 
retreat.  I  didn't  wake  Bill.  He's  got  no  more 
imagination  than  Bev.  If  I  had  needed  any- 
body I'd  have  stirred  up  Gail,  here." 

In  the  dark  I  fairly  swelled  with  pride,  and  from 
that  moment  Rex  Krane  was  added  to  my  little 
list  of  heroes  that  had  been  made  up,  so  far,  of 
Esmond  Clarenden  and  Jondo  and  any  army  officer 
above  the  rank  of  captain. 

"Krane,  you'll  do.  I  thought  I  had  your  cor- 
rect measure  back  in  Independence,"  Uncle 
Esmond  said,  heartily.  "As  to  the  boys,  I  can 
risk  them;  they  are  Clarendens.  My  anxiety  is 
for  the  little  orphan  girl.  She  is  only  a  child.  I 
couldn't  leave  her  behind  us,  and  I  must  not  let  a 
hair  of  her  head  be  harmed." 

"She's  a  right  womanly  little  thing,"  Rex  Krane 
61 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

said,  carelessly;  but  I  wondered  if  in  the  dark  his 
eyes  might  not  have  had  the  same  look  they  had 
had  at  noon  when  he  turned  to  Mat  sitting  beside 
my  uncle.  Maybe  back  at  Boston  he  had  a  little 
sister  of  his  own  like  her.  Anyhow,  I  decided  then 
that  men's  words  and  faces  do  not  always  agree. 

Again  the  roar  of  voices  broke  out,  and  we 
scrambled  from  the  wagon  and  quickly  gathered 
our  company  together. 

"What  did  you  find  out?"  Jondo  asked. 

"We  must  clear  out  of  here  right  away  and  get 
through  to  the  other  side  of  town  and  be  off  by 
daylight  without  anybody  knowing  it.  They  are 
a  gang  of  ugly  Mexicans  who  would  not  let  us 
cross  the  river  if  we  should  wait  till  morning. 
They  have  already  sent  a  spy  over  here,  and  they 
are  waiting  for  him  to  report." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  Bill  Banney broke  in. 

"They's  two  of  him — I  know  there  is,"  Rex 
Krane  declared.  "One  of  him  went  east,  to  cut 
us  off  I  reckon;  an'  t'other  faded  into  nothin' 
toward  the  river.  Kind  of  a  double  deal,  looks 
to  me." 

Both  men  looked  doubtingly  at  the  young  man ; 
but  without  further  words,  Jondo  took  command, 
and  we  knew  that  the  big  plainsman  would  put 
through  whatever  Esmond  Clarenden  had  planned. 
For  Aunty  Boone  was  right  when  she  said,  "They 
tote  together." 

"We  must  snake  these  wagons  through  town,  as 
though  we  didn't  belong  together,  but  we  mustn't 
get  too  far  apart,  either.  And  remember  now, 

62 


THE    MAN    IN   THE    DARK 

Clarenden,  if  anybody  has  to  stop  and  visit  with 
'em,  I'll  do  it  myself,"  Jondo  said. 

"Why  can't  we  ride  the  ponies?  We  can  go 
faster  and  scatter  more,"  I  urged,  as  we  hastily 
broke  camp. 

"He  is  right,  Esmond.  They  haven't  been 
riding  all  their  lives  for  nothing,"  Jondo  agreed,  as 
Esmond  Clarenden  turned  hesitatingly  toward 
Mat  Nivers. 

In  the  dim  light  her  face  seemed  bright  with 
courage.  It  is  no  wonder  that  we  all  trusted  her. 
And  trust  was  the  large  commodity  of  the  plains 
in  those  days,  when  even  as  children  we  ran  to 
meet  danger  with  courageous  daring. 

"You  must  cross  the  river  letting  the  ponies 
pick  their  own  ford,"  Jondo  commanded  us. 
"Then  go  through  to  the  ridge  on  the  northwest 
side  of  town.  Keep  out  of  the  light,  and  if  any- 
body tries  to  stop  you,  ride  like  fury  for  the  ridge." 

"Lemme  go  first,"  Aunty  Boone  interposed. 
"Nobody  lookin'  for  me  this  side  of  purgatory. 
'Fore  they  gets  over  their  surprise  I'll  be  gone. 
Whoo-ee!" 

The  soft  exclamation  had  a  breath  of  bravery  in 
it  that  stirred  all  of  us. 

"You  are  right,  Daniel.  Lead  out.  Keep  to 
the  shadows.  If  you  must  run  make  your  mules 
do  record  time,"  Uncle  Esmond  said. 

"You'll  find  me  there  when  you  stop,"  Rex 
Krane  declared.  No  sick  man  ever  took  life  less 
seriously.  "I'm  goin'  ahead  to  John-the-Baptist 
this  procession  and  air  the  parlor  bedrooms." 

63 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE   PLAINS 

"Krane,  you  are  an  invalid  and  a  fool.  You'd 
better  ride  in  the  wagon  with  me,"  Bill  Banney 
urged. 

"Mebby  I  am.  Don't  throw  it  up  to  me,  but 
I'm  no  darned  coward,  and  I'm  foot-loose.  It's 
my  job  to  give  the  address  of  welcome  over 
t'other  side  of  this  Mexican  settlement." 

The  tall,  thin  young  man  slouched  his  cap 
carelessly  on  his  head  and  strode  away  toward  the 
river.  Youth  was  reckless  in  those  days,  and  the 
trail  was  the  home  of  dramatic  opportunity. 
But  none  of  us  had  dreamed  hitherto  of  Rex 
Krane's  degree  of  daring  and  his  stubborn  will. 

The  big  yellow  moon  was  sailing  up  from  the 
east;  the  Neosho  glistened  all  jet  and  silver  over 
its  rough  bed;  the  great  shadowy  oaks  looked 
ominously  after  us  as  we  moved  out  toward  the 
threatening  peril  before  us.  Slowly,  as  though  she 
had  time  to  kill,  Aunty  Boone  sent  the  brown  mule 
and  trusty  dun  down  to  the  river's  rock-bottom 
ford.  Slowly  and  unconcernedly  she  climbed  the 
slope  and  passed  up  the  single  street  toward  the 
saloon  she  had  already  "prospected."  Pausing  a 
full  minute,  she  swung  toward  a  far-off  cabin  light 
to  the  south,  jogging  over  the  rough  ground 
noisily.  The  door  of  the  drinking-den  was  filled 
with  dark  faces  as  the  crowd  jostled  out.  Just  a 
lone  wagon  making  its  way  somewhere  about  its 
own  business,  that  was  all. 

As  the  crowd  turned  in  again  three  ponies  gal- 
loped up  the  street  toward  the  slope  leading  out 
to  the  high  level  prairies  beyond  the  Neosho  val- 

64 


THE    MAN   IN   THE    DARK 

ley.  But  who  could  guess  how  furiously  three 
young  hearts  beat,  and  how  tightly  three  pairs  of 
young  hands  clutched  the  bridle  reins  as  we  surged 
forward,  forgetting  the  advice  to  keep  in  the 
shadow. 

Just  after  we  had  crossed  the  river,  a  man  on 
horseback  fell  in  behind  us.  We  quickened  our 
speed,  but  he  gained  on  us.  Before  we  reached  the 
saloon  he  was  almost  even  with  us,  keeping  well 
in  the  shadow  all  the  while.  In  the  increasing 
moonlight,  making  everything  clear  to  the  eye,  I 
gave  one  quick  glance  over  my  shoulder  and  saw 
that  the  horseman  was  a  Mexican.  I  have  lived 
a  life  so  fraught  with  danger  that  I  should  hardly 
remember  the  feeling  of  fear  but  for  the  indelible 
imprint  of  that  one  terrified  minute  in  the  moonlit 
street  of  Council  Grove. 

Two  ruffians  on  watch  outside  the  saloon  sprang 
up  with  yells.  The  door  burst  open  and  a  gang  of 
rowdies  fairly  spilled  out  around  us.  We  three 
on  our  ponies  had  the  instinctive  security  on  horse- 
back of  children  born  to  the  saddle,  else  we  should 
never  have  escaped  from  the  half -drunken  crew. 
I  recall  the  dust  of  striking  hoofs,  the  dark  forms 
dodging  everywhere,  the  Mexican  rider  keeping 
between  us  and  the  saloon  door,  and  most  of  all  I 
remember  one  glimpse  of  Mat  Nivers's  face  with 
big,  staring  eyes,  and  firm-set  mouth;  and  I  re- 
member my  fleeting  impression  that  she  could  take 
care  of  herself  if  we  could;  and  over  all  a  sudden 
shadow  as  the  moon,  in  pity  of  our  terror,  hid  its 
face  behind  a  tiny  cloud. 

65 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

When  it  shone  out  again  we  were  dashing  by 
separate  ways  up  the  steep  slope  to  the  west 
ridge,  but,  strangely  enough,  the  Mexican  horse- 
man with  a  follower  or  two  had  turned  away  from 
us  and  was  chasing  off  somewhere  out  of  sight. 

Up  on  top  of  the  bluff,  with  Rex  Krane  and 
Aunty  Boone,  we  watched  and  waited.  The 
wooded  Neosho  valley  full  of  inky  blackness 
seemed  to  us  like  a  bottomless  gorge  of  terror 
which  no  moonlight  could  penetrate.  We  strained 
our  ears  to  catch  the  rattle  of  the  wagons,  but  the 
noise  from  the  saloon,  coming  faintly  now  and 
then,  was  all  the  sound  we  could  hear  save  the 
voices  of  the  night  rising  up  from  the  river,  and 
the  whisperings  of  the  open  prairie  to  the  west. 

In  that  hour  Rex  Krane  became  our  good  angel. 

"Keep  the  law,  'Hold  fast'!  You  made  a 
splendid  race  of  it,  and  if  Providence  made  that 
fellow  lose  you  gettin'  out,  and  led  him  and  his 
gang  sideways  from  you,  I  reckon  she  will  keep 
on  takin'  care  of  you  till  Clarenden  resumes  con- 
trol, so  don't  you  worry." 

But  for  his  brave  presence  the  terror  of  that 
lonely  watch  would  have  been  harder  than  the 
peril  of  the  street,  for  he  seemed  more  like  a  gentle 
mother  than  the  careless,  scoffing  invalid  of  the  trail. 

Midnight  came,  and  the  chill  of  midnight.  We 
huddled  together  in  our  wagon  and  still  we  waited. 
Down  in  the  village  the  lights  still  burned,  and 
angry  voices  with  curses  came  to  our  ears  at 
intervals. 

Meantime  the  three  men  across  the  river  moved 
66 


THE    MAN    IN   THE    DARK 

cautiously,  hoping  that  we  were  safe  on  the  bluff, 
and  knowing  that  they  dared  not  follow  us  too 
rapidly.  The  wagons  creaked  and  the  harness 
rattled  noisily  in  the  night  stillness,  as  slowly,  one 
by  one,  they  lumbered  through  the  darkness  across 
the  river  and  up  the  bank  to  the  village  street. 
Here  they  halted  and  grouped  together. 

"We  must  hide  out  and  wait,  Clarenden," 
Jondo  counciled.  "I  hope  the  ponies  and  the 
wagon  ahead  are  safe,  but  they  stirred  things  up. 
If  we  go  now  we'll  all  be  caught." 

The  three  wagons  fell  apart  and  halted  wide  of 
the  trail  where  the  oak-trees  made  the  blackest 
shade.  The  minutes  dragged  out  like  hours,  and 
the  anxiety  for  the  unprotected  group  on  the  bluff 
made  the  three  men  frantic  to  hurry  on.  But 
Jondo' s  patience  equaled  his  courage,  and  he 
always  took  the  least  risk.  It  was  nearly  mid- 
night, and  every  noise  was  intensified.  If  a  mule 
but  moved  it  set  up  a  clatter  of  harness  chains 
that  seemed  to  fill  the  valley. 

At  last  a  horseman,  coming  suddenly  from  some- 
where, rode  swiftly  by  each  shadow-hidden  wagon, 
half  pausing  at  the  sound  of  the  mules  stamping 
in  their  places,  and  then  he  hurried  up  the  street. 

"Three  against  the  crowd.  If  we  must  fight, 
fight  to  kill,"  Jondo  urged,  as  the  ready  firearms 
were  placed  for  action. 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  crew  broke  out  of  the 
saloon  and  filled  the  moonlit  street,  all  talking  and 
swearing  in  broken  Spanish. 

"Not  come  yet!" 

67 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Pedro  say  they  be  here  to-morrow  night!" 

"We  wait  till  to-morrow  night!" 

And  with  many  wild  yells  they  fell  back  for  a 
last  debauch  in  the  drinking-den. 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  Jondo  declared. 
"That  fellow  who  rode  by  here  ought  to  have 
located  every  son  of  us,  but  if  they  want  to  wait 
till  to-morrow  night  it  suits  me." 

An  hour  later,  when  the  village  was  in  a  dead 
sleep,  three  wagons  slowly  pulled  up  the  long  street 
and  joined  the  waiting  group  at  the  top,  and  the 
crossing  over  was  complete. 

Dawrn  was  breaking  as  our  four  wagons,  fol- 
lowed by  the  ponies,  crept  away  in  the  misty 
light.  As  we  trailed  off  into  the  unknown  land, 
I  looked  back  at  the  bluff  below  which  nestled 
the  last  houses  we  were  to  see  for  seven  hundred 
miles.  And  there,  outlined  against  the  horizon,  a 
Mexican  stood  watching  us.  I  had  seen  the  same 
man  one  day  riding  up  from  the  ravine  southwest 
of  Fort  Leavenworth.  I  had  seen  him  dashing 
toward  the  river  the  next  day.  I  had  watched 
him  sitting  across  the  street  from  the  Clarenden 
store  in  Independence. 

I  wondered  if  it  might  have  been  this  man  who 
had  hung  about  our  camp  the  evening  before,  and 
if  it  might  have  been  this  same  man  who  rode 
between  us  and  the  saloon  mob,  leading  the  crowd 
after  him  and  losing  us  on  the  side  of  the  bluff. 
And  as  we  had  eluded  the  Council  Grove  danger,  I 
wondered  what  would  come  next,  and  if  he  would 
be  in  it. 

68 


V 

WOMEN    AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 


"So  I  draw  the  world  together,  link  by  link." 

— KIPLING. 


DAY  after  day  we  pushed  into  the  unknown 
wilderness.  No  wagon  -  trains  passed  ours 
moving  eastward.  No  moccasined  track  in  the 
dust  of  the  trail  gave  hint  of  any  human  presence 
near.  Where  to-day  the  Pullman  car  glides  in 
smooth  comfort,  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  lay  like  a 
narrow  brown  ribbon  on  the  green  desolation  of 
Nature's  unconquered  domain.  Out  beyond  the 
region  of  long-stemmed  grasses,  into  the  short- 
grass  land,  we  pressed  across  a  pathless  field-of-the- 
cloth-of-green,  gemmed  with  myriads  of  bright 
blossoms — broad  acres  on  acres  that  the  young 
years  of  a  coming  century  should  change  into 
great  wheat -fields  to  help  fill  the  granaries  of  the 
world.  How  I  reveled  in  it — that  far-stretching 
plain  of  flower-starred  verdure !  It  was  my  world 
—mine,  unending,  only  softening  out  into  lavender 
mists  that  rimmed  it  round  in  one  unbroken  fold 
of  velvety  vapor. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  Arkansas  River — flat- 
69 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

banked,  sand-bottomed,  wide,  wandering,  impos- 
sible thing — whose  shallow  waters  followed  aim- 
lessly the  line  of  least  resistance,  back  and  forth 
across  its  bed.  Rivers  had  meant  something  to 
me.  The  big  muddy  Missouri  for  Independence 
and  Fort  Leavenworth,  that  its  steamers  might 
bring  the  soldiers,  and  my  uncle's  goods  to  their 
places.  The  little  rivers  that  ran  into  the  big 
ones,  to  feed  their  currents  for  down-stream  ser- 
vice. The  creeks,  that  boys  might  wade  and 
swim  and  fish,  else  Beverly  would  have  lived  un- 
happily all  his  days.  But  here  was  a  river  that 
could  neither  fetch  nor  carry.  Nobody  lived 
near  it,  and  it  had  no  deep  waters  like  our  beloved, 
ugly  old  Missouri.  I  loved  the  level  prairies,  but  I 
didn't  like  that  river,  somehow.  I  felt  exposed  on 
its  blank,  treeless  borders,  as  if  I  stood  naked  and 
defenseless,  with  no  haven  of  cover  from  the  ene- 
mies of  the  savage  plains. 

The  late  afternoon  was  hot,  the  sky  was  dust- 
dimmed,  the  south  wind  feverish  and  strength- 
sapping.  At  dawn  we  had  sighted  a  peak  against 
the  western  horizon.  We  were  approaching  it 
now — a  single  low  butte,  its  front  a  sheer  stone 
bluff  facing  southward  toward  the  river,  it  lifted 
its  head  high  above  the  silent  plains;  and  to  the 
north  it  stretched  in  a  long  gentle  slope  back  to  a 
lateral  rim  along  the  landscape.  The  trail  crept 
close  about  its  base,  as  if  it  would  cling  lovingly 
to  this  one  shadow-making  thing  amid  all  the 
open,  blaring,  sun-bound  miles  stretching  out  on 
either  side  of  it. 

70 


WOMEN   AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 

As  Beverly  and  I  were  riding  in  front  of  Mat's 
wagon,  of  which  we  had  elected  ourselves  the 
special  guardians,  Rex  Krane  came  up  alongside 
Bill  Banney's  team  in  front  of  us.  The  young 
men  were  no  such  hard-and-fast  friends  as  Beverly 
and  I.  For  some  reason  they  had  little  to  say  to 
each  other. 

"Is  that  what  you  call  Pike's  Peak,  Bill?"  Rex 
asked. 

"No,  the  mountains  are  a  month  away.  That's 
Pawnee  Rock,  and  I'll  breathe  a  lot  freer  when 
we  get  out  of  sight  of  that  infernal  thing,"  Bill 
replied. 

"What's  its  offense?"  Rex  inquired. 

"It's  the  peak  of  perdition,  the  bottomless  pit 
turned  inside  out,"  Bill  declared. 

"I  don't  see  the  excuse  for  a  rock  sittin'  out 
here,  sayin'  nothin',  bein'  called  all  manner  of 
unpleasant  names,"  the  young  Bostonian  insisted. 

"Well,  I  reckon  you'd  find  one  mighty  quick 
if  you  ever  heard  the  soldiers  at  Fort  Leavenworth 
talk  about  it  once.  All  the  plainsmen  dread  it. 
Jondo  says  more  men  have  been  killed  right  around 
this  old  stone  Sphinx  than  any  other  one  spot  in 
North  America,  outside  of  battlefields." 

"Happy  thought!  Do  their  ghosts  rise  up  and 
walk  at  midnight?  Tell  me  more,"  Rex  urged. 

"  Nobody  walks.  Everybody  runs.  There  was 
a  terrible  Indian  fight  here  once;  the  Pawnees  in 
the  king-row,  and  all  the  hosts  of  the  Midianites, 
and  Hivites,  and  Jebusites,  Kiowa,  Comanche, 
and  Kaw,  rag-tag  and  bobtail,  trying  to  get  'em 
6  71 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

out.  I  don't  know  who  won,  but  the  citadel  got 
christened  Pawnee  Rock.  It  took  a  fountain 
filled  with  blood  to  do  it,  though." 

Rex  Krane  gave  a  long  whistle. 

"I  believe  Bill  is  trying  to  scare  him,  Bev," 
I  murmured. 

"I  believe  he's  just  precious  wasting  time," 
Beverly  replied. 

"And  so,"  Bill  continued,  "it  came  to  be  a  sort 
of  rock  of  execution  where  romances  end  and  they 
die  happily  ever  afterward.  The  Indians  get  up 
there  and,  being  able  to  read  fine  print  with  ease 
as  far  away  as  either  seacoast,  they  can  watch  any 
wagon-train  from  the  time  it  leaves  Council  Grove 
over  east  to  Bent's  Fort  on  the  Purgatoire  Creek 
out  west;  and  having  counted  the  number  of  men, 
and  the  number  of  bullets  in  each  man's  pouch, 
they  slip  down  and  jump  on  the  train  as  it  goes  by. 
If  the  men  can  make  it  to  beat  them  to  the  top 
of  the  rock,  as  they  do  sometimes,  they  can  keep 
the  critters  off,  unless  the  Indians  are  strong 
enough  to  keep  them  up  there  and  sit  around 
and  wait  till  they  starve  for  water,  and  have  to 
come  down.  It's  a  grim  old  fortress,  and  never 
needs  a  garrison.  Indians  or  white  men  up  there, 
sometimes  they  defend  and  sometimes  attack. 
But  it's  a  bad  place  always,  and  on  account 
of  having  our  little  girl  along — "  Bill  paused. 
"A  fellow  gets  to  see  a  lot  of  country  out  here," 
he  added. 

"Banney,  just  why  didn't  you  join  the  army? 
You'd  have  a  chance  to  see  a  lot  more  of  the  coun- 

72 


WOMEN   AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 

try,  if  this  Mexican  War  goes  on,"  Rex  Krane  said, 
meditatively. 

"I'd  rather  be  my  own  captain  and  order  myself 
to  the  front,  and  likewise  command  my  rear- 
guard to  retire,  whenever  I  doggone  please,"  Bill 
said.  "It  isn't  the  soldiers  that  '11  do  this  country 
the  most  good.  They  are  useful  enough  when 
they  are  useful,  Lord  knows.  And  we'll  always 
need  a  decent  few  of  'em  around  to  look  after 
women  and  children,  and  invalids,"  he  went  on. 
"I  tell  you,  Krane,  it's  men  like  Clarenden  that's 
going  to  make  these  prairies  worth  something  one 
of  these  days.  The  men  who  build  up  business, 
not  them  that  shoot  and  run  to  or  from.  That's 
what  the  West's  got  to  have.  I'm  through  going 
crazy  about  army  folks.  One  man  that  buys  and 
sells,  if  he  gives  good  weight  and  measure,  is, 
himself,  a  whole  regiment  for  civilization." 

Just  then  Jondo  halted  the  train,  and  we 
gathered  about  him. 

"Clarenden,  let's  pitch  camp  at  the  rock.  The 
horses  are  dead  tired  and  this  wind  is  making 
them  nervous.  There's  a  storm  due  as  soon  as  it 
lays  a  bit,  and  we  would  be  sort  of  protected  here. 
A  tornado's  a  giant  out  in  this  country,  you 
know." 

"This  tavern  doesn't  have  a  very  good  name 
with  the  traveling  public,  does  it,  Clarenden?" 
Rex  Krane  suggested. 

"Not  very,"  my  uncle  replied.  "But  in  case  of 
trouble,  the  top  of  it  isn't  a  bad  place  to  shoot 
from." 

73 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"What  if  the  other  fellow  gets  there  first?"  Bill 
Banney  inquired. 

"We  can  run  from  here  as  easily  as  any  other 
place,"  Jondo  assured  us.  "I  haven't  seen  a  sign 
of  Indians  yet.  But  we've  got  to  be  careful. 
This  point  has  a  bad  reputation,  and  I  naturally 
begin  to  feel  Indians  in  the  air  as  soon  as  I  come 
in  sight  of  it.  If  we  need  the  law  of  the  trail  any- 
where, we  need  it  here,"  he  admonished. 

Beverly  and  I  drew  close  together.  We  were  in 
the  land  of  bad  Indians,  but  nothing  had  happened 
to  us  yet,  and  we  could  not  believe  that  any  danger 
was  near  us  now,  although  we  were  foolishly 
half  hoping  that  there  might  be,  for  the  excitement 
of  it. 

"There's  no  place  in  a  million  miles  for  anybody 
to  hide,  Bill.  Where  would  Jondo' s  Indians  be?" 
Beverly  asked,  as  we  were  getting  into  camp  order 
for  the  night. 

Beverly's  disposition  to  demand  proof  was  as 
strong  here  as  it  had  been  in  the  matter  of  rivers 
turning  their  courses,  and  fishes  playing  leap-frog. 

"They  might  be  behind  that  ridge  out  north, 
and  have  a  scout  lying  flat  on  the  top  of  old  Pawnee 
Rock,  up  there,  lookin'  benevolently  down  at  us 
over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles  right  now,"  Bill 
replied,  as  he  pulled  the  corral  ropes  out  of  the 
wagon. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"What  Jondo  said  about  his  feeling  Indians,  I 
guess,  but  he  reads  these  prairie  trails  as  easy  as 
Robinson  Crusoe  read  Friday's  footprints  in  the 

74 


WOMEN    AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 

sand,  and  he  hasn't  read  anything  in  'em  yet. 
Indians  don't  fight  at  night,  anyhow.  That's 
one  good  thing.  Get  hold  of  that  rope,  Bev,  and 
pull  her  up  tight,"  Bill  replied. 

Every  night  our  four  wagons  in  camp  made  a 
hollow  square,  with  space  enough  allowed  at  the 
corners  to  enlarge  the  corral  inside  for  the  stock. 
These  corners  were  securely  roped  across  from 
wagon  to  wagon.  To-night,  however,  the  corral 
space  was  reduced  and  the  quartet  of  vehicles 
huddled  closer  together. 

At  dusk  the  hot  wind  came  sweeping  in  from  the 
southwest,  a  wild,  lashing  fury,  swirling  the  sand 
in  great  spirals  from  the  river  bed.  Our  fire  wras 
put  out  and  the  blackness  of  midnight  fell  upon  us. 
The  horses  were  restless  and  the  mules  squealed 
and  stamped.  All  night  the  very  spirit  of  fear 
seemed  to  fill  the  air. 

Just  before  daybreak  a  huge  black  storm-cloud 
came  boiling  up  out  of  the  southwest,  with  a  weird 
yellow  band  across  the  sky  before  it.  Overhead  the 
stars  shed  a  dim  light  on  the  shadowy  face  of  the 
plains.  A  sudden  whisper  thrilled  the  camp,  chilling 
our  hearts  within  us. 

"Indians  near!"     We  all  knew  it  in  a  flash. 

Jondo,  on  guard,  had  caught  the  sign  first. 
Something  creeping  across  the  trail,  not  a  coyote, 
for  it  stood  upright  a  moment,  then  bent  again, 
and  was  lost  in  the  deep  gloom.  Jondo  had 
shifted  to  another  angle  of  the  outlook,  had  seen 
it  again,  and  again  at  a  third  point.  It  was  en- 
circling the  camp.  Then  all  of  us,  except  Jondo, 

75 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

began  to  see  moving  shapes.  He  saw  nothing 
for  a  long  time,  and  our  spirits  rose  again. 

"You  must  have  been  mistaken,  Jondo,"  Rex 
Krane  ventured,  as  he  stared  into  the  black  gloom. 
"Maybe  it  was  just  this  infernal  wind.  It's  one 
darned  sea-breeze  of  a  zephyr." 

"I've  crossed  the  plains  before.  I  wasn't  mis- 
taken," the  big  plainsman  replied.  "If  I  had 
been,  you'd  still  see  it.  The  trouble  is  that  it  is 
watching  now.  Everybody  lay  low.  It  will 
come  to  life  again.  I  hope  there's  only  one  of  it." 

We  had  hardly  moved  after  the  first  alarm, 
except  to  peer  about  and  fancy  that  dark  objects 
were  closing  in  upon  us. 

It  did  come  to  life  again.  This  time  on  Jondo' s 
side  of  the  camp.  Something  creeping  near,  and 
nearer. 

The  air  was  motionless  and  hot  above  us,  the 
upper  heavens  were  beginning  to  be  threshed 
across  by  clouds,  and  the  silence  hung  like  a 
weight  upon  us.  Then  suddenly,  just  beyond 
the  camp,  a  form  rose  from  the  ground,  stood 
upright,  and  stretched  out  both  arms  toward  us. 
And  a  low  cry,  "Take  me.  I  die,"  reached  our 
ears. 

Still  Jondo  commanded  silence.  Indians  are 
shrewd  to  decoy  their  foes  out  of  the  security 
of  the  camp.  The  form  came  nearer — a  little  girl, 
no  larger  than  our  Mat — and  again  came  the  low 
call.  The  voice  was  Indian,  the  accent  Spanish, 
but  the  words  were  English. 

"Come  to  us!"  Esmond  Clarenden  answered 
76 


WOMEN   AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 

back  in  a  clear,  low  tone ;  and  slowly  and  noise- 
lessly the  girl  approached  the  camp. 

I  can  feel  it  all  now,  although  that  was  many 
years  ago:  the  soft  starlight  on  the  plains;  the  hot, 
still  air  holding  its  breath  against  the  oncoming 
tornado;  the  group  of  wagons  making  a  deeper 
shadow  in  the  dull  light;  beyond  us  the  bold 
front  of  old  Pawnee  Rock,  huge  and  gray  in  the 
gloom;  our  little  company  standing  close  together, 
ready  to  hurl  a  shower  of  bullets  if  this  proved 
but  the  decoy  of  a  hidden  foe ;  and  the  girl  with 
light  step  drawing  nearer.  Clad  in  the  picturesque 
garb  of  the  Southwest  Indian,  her  hair  hanging  in  a 
great  braid  over  each  shoulder,  her  dark  eyes  fixed 
on  us,  she  made  a  picture  in  that  dusky  setting 
that  an  artist  might  not  have  given  to  his  brush 
twice  in  a  lifetime  on  the  plains. 

A  few  feet  from  us  she  halted. 

''Throw  up  your  hands!"  Jondo  commanded. 

The  slim  brown  arms  were  flung  above  the  girl's 
head,  and  I  caught  the  glint  of  quaintly  hammered 
silver  bracelets,  as  she  stepped  forward  with  that 
ease  of  motion  that  generations  of  moccasined  feet 
on  sand  and  sod  and  stone  can  give. 

"Take  me,"  she  cried,  pleadingly.  "The  Mexi- 
cans steal  me  from  my  people  and  bring  me  far 
away.  They  meet  Kiowa.  Kiowa  beat  me; 
make  me  slave." 

She  held  up  her  hands.  They  were  lacerated 
and  bleeding.  She  slipped  the  bright  blanket 
from  her  brown  shoulder.  It  was  bruised  and 
swollen. 

77 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"You  go  to  Santa  Fe?  Take  me.  I  do  you 
good,  not  bad." 

"What  would  these  Kiowas  do  to  us,  then?" 

It  was  Bill  Banney  who  spoke. 

"They  follow  you— kill  you." 

"Oh,  cheerful!  I  wish  you  were  twins,"  Rex 
Krane  said,  softly. 

Jondo  lifted  his  hand. 

"Let  me  talk  to  her,"  he  said. 

Then  in  her  own  language  he  got  her  story. 

' '  Here  we  are. ' '  He  turned  to  us.  ' '  Stolen  from 
her  people  by  the  Mexicans,  probably  the  same 
ones  we  passed  in  Council  Grove;  traded  to  the 
Kiowas  out  here  somewhere,  beaten,  and  starved, 
and  held  for  ransom,  or  trade  to  some  other  tribe. 
They  are  over  there  behind  Pawnee  Rock.  They 
got  sight  of  us  somehow,  but  they  don't  intend  to 
bother  us.  They  are  on  the  lookout  for  a  bigger 
train.  She  has  slipped  away  while  they  sleep.  If 
we  send  her  back  she  will  be  beaten  and  made  a 
slave.  If  we  keep  her,  they  will  follow  us  for  a 
fight.  They  are  fifty  to  our  six.  What  shall 
we  do?" 

"We  don't  need  any  Indians  to  help  us  get  into 
trouble.  We  are  sure  enough  of  it  without  that," 
Bill  Banney  declared.  "And  what's  one  Indian, 
anyhow?  She's  just — 

"Just  a  little  orphan  girl  like  Mat,"  Rex  Krane 
finished  his  sentence. 

Bill  frowned,  but  made  no  reply. 

The  Indian  girl  was  standing  outside  the  corral, 
listening  to  all  that  was  said,  her  face  giving  no- 

78 


WOMEN   AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 

sign  of  the  struggle  between  hope  and  despair  that 
must  have  striven  within  her. 

"Uncle  Esmond,  let's  take  her,  and  take  our 
chances."  Beverly's  boyish  voice  had  a  defiant 
tone,  for  the  spirit  of  adventure  was  strong  within 
him.  The  girl  turned  quickly  and  a  great  light 
leaped  into  her  eyes  at  the  boy's  words. 

"Save  a  life  and  lose  ours.  It's  not  the  rule  of 
the  plains,  but — there's  a  higher  law  like  that 
somewhere,  Clarenden,"  Jondo  said,  earnestly. 

The  girl  came  swiftly  toward  Uncle  Esmond 
and  stood  upright  before  him. 

' '  I  will  not  hide  the  truth.  I  go  back  to  Kiowas. 
They  sell  me  for  big  treasure.  They  will  not  harm 
you,"  she  said.  "I  stay  with  you,  they  say  you 
steal  me,  and  they  come  at  the  first  bird's  song  and 
kill  you  every  one.  They  are  so  many." 

She  stood  motionless  before  him,  the  seal  of 
grim  despair  on  her  young  face. 

"What's  your  name  ?"  Esmond  Clarenden  asked. 

' '  Po-a-be.  In  your  words,  '  Little  Blue  Flower, ' ' 
the  girl  said. 

"Then,  Little  Blue  Flower,  you  must  stay  with 
us." 

She  pointed  toward  the  eastern  sky  where  a 
faint  light  was  beginning  to  show  above  the  hori- 
zon. "See,  the  day  comes!" 

"Then  we  will  break  camp  now,"  my  uncle  said. 

"Not  in  the  face  of  this  storm,  Clarenden," 
Jondo  declared.  "You  can  fight  an  Indian.  You 
can't  do  a  thing  but  'hold  fast'  in  one  of  these 
hurricanes." 

79 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

The  air  was  still  and  hot.  The  black  cloud 
swept  swiftly  onward,  with  the  weird  yellow  glow 
before  it.  In  the  solitude  of  the  plains  the  trail 
showed  like  a  ghostly  pathway  of  peril.  Before  us 
loomed  that  grim  rock  bluff,  behind  whose  crest 
lay  the  sleeping  band  of  Kiowas.  It  was  only  be- 
cause they  slept  that  Little  Blue  Flower  could  steal 
away  in  hope  of  rescue. 

Hotter  grew  the  air  and  darker  the  swiftly  roll- 
ing clouds ;  black  and  awful  stood  old  Pawnee  Rock 
with  the  silent  menace  of  its  sleeping  enemy.  In  the 
stillness  of  the  pause  before  the  storm  burst  we 
heard  Jondo's  voice  commanding  us.  With  our 
first  care  for  the  frightened  stock,  we  grouped  our- 
selves together  as  he  ordered  close  under  the  bluff. 

Suddenly  an  angry  wind  leaped  out  of  the  sky, 
beating  back  the  hot  dead  air  with  gigantic  flails 
of  fury.  Then  the  storm  broke  with  tornado  rage 
and  cloudburst  floods,  and  in  its  track  terror 
reigned.  Beverly  and  I  clung  together,  and,  hold- 
ing a  hand  of  each,  Mat  Nivers  crouched  beside  us, 
herself  strong  in  this  second  test  of  courage  as  she 
had  been  in  the  camp  that  night  at  Council  Grove. 

I  have  never  been  afraid  of  storms  and  I  can 
never  understand  why  timid  folk  should  speak  of 
them  as  of  a  living,  self-directing  force  bent  pur- 
posely on  human  destruction .  I  love  the  splendor  of 
the  lightning  and  the  thunder '  s  peal .  From  our  ear- 
liest years,  Beverly  and  Mat  and  I  had  watched  the 
flood-waters  of  the  Missouri  sweep  over  the  bot- 
tomlands, and  we  had  heard  the  winds  rave,  and 
the  cannonading  of  the  angry  heavens.  But  this 

80 


WOMEN    AND    CHILDREN    FIRST 

mad  blast  of  the  prairie  storm  was  like  nothing  we 
had  ever  seen  or  heard  before.  A  yellow  glare 
filled  the  sky,  a  half -illumined,  evil  glow,  as  if  to 
hide  what  lay  beyond  it.  One  breathed  in  fine 
sand,  and  tasted  the  desert  dust.  Behind  it,  all 
copper-green,  a  broad,  lurid  band  swept  up  toward 
the  zenith.  Under  its  weird,  unearthly  light,  the 
prairies,  and  everything  upon  them,  took  on  a 
ghastly  hue.  Then  came  the  inky-black  storm- 
cloud — long,  funnel-shaped,  pendulous — and  in  its 
deafening  roar  and  the  thick  darkness  that  could 
be  felt,  and  the  awful  sweep  of  its  all-engulfing 
embrace,  the  senses  failed  and  the  very  breath  of 
life  seemed  beaten  away.  The  floods  fell  in 
streams,  hot,  then  suddenly  cold.  And  then  a  fusil- 
lade of  hail  bombarded  the  flat  prairies,  defenseless 
beneath  the  munitions  of  the  heavens.  But  in  all 
the  wild,  mad  blackness,  in  the  shriek  and  crash  of 
maniac  winds,  in  the  swirl  of  many  waters,  and  chill 
and  fury  of  the  threshing  hail,  the  law  of  the  trail 
failed  not:  "Hold  fast."  And  with  our  hands 
gripped  in  one  another's,  we  children  kept  the  law. 
Just  at  the  moment  when  destruction  seemed 
upon  us,  the  long  swinging  cloud -funnel  lifted. 
We  heard  it  passing  high  above  us.  Then  it 
dropped  against  the  face  of  old  Pawnee  Rock, 
that  must  have  held  the  trail  law  through  all  the 
centuries  of  storms  that  have  beaten  against  its 
bold,  stern  front.  One  tremendous  blast,  one 
crashing  boom,  as  if  the  foundations  of  the  earth 
were  broken  loose,  and  the  thing  had  left  us  far 
behind. 

81 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Daylight  burst  upon  us  in  a  moment,  and  the 
blue  heavens  smiled  down  on  the  clean-washed 
prairies.  No  homes,  no  crops,  no  orchards  were 
left  in  ruins  in  those  days  to  mark  the  cyclone's 
wrath  on  wilderness  trails.  As  the  darkness 
lifted  we  gathered  ourselves  together  to  take  hold 
of  life  again  and  to  defend  ourselves  from  our  hu- 
man enemy. 

A  shower  of  arrows  from  the  top  of  the  bluff 
might  rain  upon  us  at  any  moment,  yelling  war- 
riors might  rush  upon  us,  or  a  ring  of  riders  en- 
circle us.  It  was  in  times  like  this  that  I  learned 
how  quickly  men  can  get  the  mastery. 

Jondo  and  Esmond  Clarenden  did  not  delay  a 
minute  in  protecting  the  camp  and  setting  it  in 
order,  taking  inventory  of  the  lost  and  searching 
for  the  missing.  Three  of  our  number,  with  one 
of  the  ponies,  were  missing. 

Aunty  Boone  had  crouched  in  a  protected  angle 
at  the  base  of  the  bluff,  and  when  we  found  her  she 
was  calmly  smoking  her  pipe. 

"Yo*  skeered  of  this  little  puff?"  she  queried. 
"Yo*  bettah  see  a  simoon  on  the  desset,  then. 
This  here — just  a  racket.  What's  come  of  that 
little  redskin?" 

She  was  not  to  be  found.  Nor  was  there  any 
trace  of  Rex  Krane  anywhere.  In  consternation 
we  scanned  the  prairies  far  and  wide,  but  only  level 
green  distances  were  about  us,  holding  no  sign  of 
life.  We  lived  hours  in  those  watching  minutes. 

Suddenly  Beverly  gave  a  shout,  and  we  saw 
Little  Blue  Flower  running  swiftly  from  the  sloping 

82 


WOMEN   AND   CHILDREN   FIRST 

side  of  the  bluff  toward  the  camp.     Behind  her 
stalked  the  young  New-Englander. 

1 '  I  went  up  to  see  what  she  was  in  such  a  hurry 
for  to  see,"  he  explained,  simply.  "I  calculated  it 
would  be  as  interestin'  to  me  as  to  her,  and  if 
anything  was  about  to  cut  loose" — •  he  laid  a 
hand  carelessly  on  his  revolver — "why,  I'd  help  it 
along.  The  little  pink  pansy,  it  seems,  went  to 
look  after  our  friends,  the  enemy,"  Rex  went  on. 
"The  hail  nearly  busted  that  old  rock  open.  I 
thought  once  it  had.  The  ponies  are  scattered 
and  likewise  the  Kiowas.  Gone  helter-skelter, 
like  the — tornado.  The  thing  hit  hard  up  there. 
Some  ponies  dead,  and  mebby  an  Indian  or  two. 
I  didn't  hunt  'em  up.  I  can't  use  'em  that  way," 
he  added.  "So  I  just  said,  'Pax  vobiscum!'  and  a 
lot  of  it,  and  came  kittering  back." 

Little  Blue  Flower's  eyes  glistened. 

"Gone,  all  gone.  The  rain  god  drove  them 
away.  Now  I  know  I  may  go  with  you.  The 
rain  god  loves  you." 

It  was  to  Beverly,  and  not  to  my  uncle,  that  her 
eyes  turned  as  she  spoke,  but  he  was  not  even 
listening  to  her.  To  him  she  was  merely  an 
Indian.  She  seemed  more  than  that  to  me,  and 
therein  lay  the  difference  between  us. 

If  she  had  been  interesting  under  the  starlight, 
in  the  light  of  day  she  became  picturesque,  a  beau- 
tiful type  of  her  race,  silent,  alert  of  countenance, 
with  big,  expressive,  black  eyes,  and  long,  heavy 
braids  of  black  hair.  With  her  brilliant  blanket 
about  her  shoulders,  a  turquoise  pendant  on  a 

83 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

leather  band  at  her  throat,  silver  bracelets  on  her 
brown  arms,  she  was  as  pleasing  as  an  Indian 
maiden  could  be — adding  a  touch  of  picturesque 
Me  to  that  wonderful  journey  westward  from  Paw- 
nee Rock  to  Santa  Fe.  Aunty  Boone  alone  re- 
sented her  presence  among  us. 

"You  can  trust  a  nigger,"  she  growled,  "'cause 
you  know  they  none  of  'em  no  'count.  But  you 
can't  tell  about  this  Injun,  whether  she's  good  or 
bad.  I  lets  that  sort  of  fish  alone." 

Little  Blue  Flower  looked  up  at  her  with  steady 
gaze  and  made  no  reply. 

Out  of  that  morning's  events  I  learned  a  lasting 
lesson,  and  I  know  now  that  the  influence  of  Rex 
Krane  on  my  life  began  that  day,  as  I  recalled  how 
he  had  followed  Aunty  Boone  about  the  dark 
corners  of  the  little  trading-post  on  the  Neosho; 
and  how  he  had  looked  at  Mat  Nivers  once  when 
Uncle  Esmond  had  suggested  his  turning  back  to 
Independence;  and  how  he  had  gone  before  all  of 
us,  the  vanguard,  to  the  top  of  the  bluff  west  of 
Council  Grove;  and  now  he  had  followed  this 
Indian  girl.  From  that  time  I  knew  in  my  boy 
heart  that  this  tall,  careless  Boston  youth  had  a 
zealous  care  for  the  safety  of  women  and  children. 
How  much  care,  events  would  run  swiftly  on  to 
show  me.  But  welded  into  my  life  from  that  hour 
was  the  meaning  of  a  man's  high,  chivalric  duty. 
And  among  all  the  lessons  that  the  old  trail  taught 
to  me,  none  served  me  more  than  this  one  that 
came  to  me  on  that  sweet  May  morning  beneath 
the  shadow  of  Pawnee  Rock. 

84 


VI 

SPYING    OUT   THE    LAND 

City  of  the  Holy  Faith, 

In  thy  streets  so  dim  with  age, 

Do  I  read  not  Faith's  decay, 
But  the  Future's  heritage. 

— LILIAN  WHITING. 

DAY  was  passing  and  the  shadows  were  already 
beginning  to  grow  purple  in  the  valleys,  long 
before  the  golden  light  had  left  the  opal-crowned 
peaks  of  the  Sangre-de-Christo  Mountains  beyond 
them. 

On  the  wide  crest  of  a  rocky  ridge  our  wagons 
halted.  Behind  us  the  long  trail  stretched  back, 
past  mountain  height  and  canon  wall,  past  barren 
slope  and  rolling  green  prairie,  on  to  where  the 
wooded  ravines  hem  in  the  Missouri's  yellow 
floods. 

Before  us  lay  a  level  plain,  edged  round  with 
high  mesas,  over  which  snowy-topped  mountain 
peaks  kept  watch.  A  sandy  plain,  checkered 
across  by  verdant-banded  arroyos,  and  splotched 
with  little  clumps  of  trees  and  little  fields  of  corn. 
In  the  heart  of  it  all  was  Santa  Fe,  a  mere  group  of 
dust-brown  adobe  blocks — silent,  unsmiling,  ex- 

85 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

pressionless — the  city  of  the  Spanish   Mexican, 
centuries  old  and  centuries  primitive. 

As  our  tired  mules  slackened  their  traces  and 
drooped  to  rest  after  the  long  up-climb,  Esmond 
Clarenden  called  out : 

"Come  here,  children.  Yonder  is  the  end  of 
the  trail." 

We  gathered  eagerly  about  him,  a  picture  in 
ourselves,  maybe,  in  an  age  of  picturesque  things; 
four  men,  bronzed  and  bearded;  two  sturdy  boys; 
Mat  Nivers,  no  longer  a  little  girl,  it  seemed  now, 
with  the  bloom  of  health  on  her  tanned  cheeks, 
and  the  smile  of  good  nature  in  wide  gray  eyes; 
beside  her,  the  Indian  maiden,  Little  Blue  Flower, 
slim,  brown,  lithe  of  motion,  brief  of  speech;  and 
towering  back  of  all,  the  glistening  black  face  of 
the  big,  silent  African  woman. 

So  we  stood  looking  out  toward  that  northwest 
plain  where  the  trail  lost  itself  among  the  low  adobe 
huts  huddled  together  beside  the  glistening  waters 
of  the  Santa  Fe  River. 

Rex  Krane  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"So  that's  what  we've  come  out  for  to  see,  is 
it?"  he  mused,  aloud.  "That's  the  precious  old 
town  that  we've  dodged  Indians,  and  shot  rattle-  F 
snakes,  and  sunburnt  our  noses,  and  rain-soaked 
our  dress  suits  for!  That's  why  we've  pillowed 
our  heads  on  the  cushiony  cactus  and  tramped 
through  purling  sands,  and  blistered  our  hands 
pullin'  at  eider-down  ropes,  and  strained  our 
leg-muscles  goin'  down,  and  busted  our  lungs 
comin'  up,  and  clawed  along  the  top  edge  of  the 

86 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

world  with  nothin'  but  healthy  climate  between  us 
and  the  bottom  of  the  bottomless  pit.  Humph! 
That's  what  you  call  Santa  Fe!  'The  city  of  the 
Holy  Faith!'  Well,  I  need  a  darned  lot  of  'holy 
faith'  to  make  me  see  any  city  there.  It's  just  a 
bunch  of  old  yellow  brick-kilns  to  me,  and  I  'most 
wish  now  I'd  stayed  back  at  Independence  and 
hunted  dog-tooth  violets  along  the  Big  Blue." 

''It's  not  Boston,  if  that's  what  you  were  looking 
for;  at  least  there's  no  Bunker  Hill  Monument  nor 
Back  Bay  anywhere  in  sight.  But  I  reckon  it's 
the  best  they've  got.  I'm  tired  enough  to  take 
what's  offered  and  keep  still,"  Bill  Banney  de- 
clared. 

I,  too,  wanted  to  keep  still.  I  had  only  a  faint 
memory  of  a  real  city.  It  must  have  been  St. 
Louis,  for  there  was  a  wharf,  and  a  steamboat 
and  a  busy  street,  and  soft  voices — speaking  a 
foreign  tongue.  But  the  pictures  I  had  seen,  and 
the  talk  I  had  heard,  coupled  with  a  little  boy's 
keen  imagination,  had  built  up  a  very  different 
Santa  Fe  in  my  mind.  At  that  moment  I  was 
homesick  for  Fort  Leavenworth,  through  and 
through  homesick,  for  the  first  time  since  that 
April  day  when  I  had  sat  on  the  bluff  above  the 
Missouri  River  while  the  vision  of  the  plains  de- 
scended upon  me.  Everything  seemed  so  different 
to-night,  as  if  a  gulf  had  widened  between  us  and 
all  the  nights  behind  us. 

We  went  into  camp  on  the  ridge,  with  the  jour- 
ney's goal  in  plain  view.  And  as  we  sat  down 
together  about  the  fire  after  supper  we  forgot  the 
7  87 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

hardships  of  the  way  over  which  we  had  come. 
The  pine  logs  blazed  cheerily,  and  as  the  air  grew 
chill  we  drew  nearer  together  about  them  as  about 
a  home  fireside. 

The  long  June  twilight  fell  upon  the  landscape. 
The  pirion  and  scrubby  cedars  turned  to  dark 
blotches  on  the  slopes.  The  valley  swam  in  a 
purple  mist.  The  silence  of  evening  was  broken 
only  by  a  faint  bird-note  in  the  bushes,  and  the 
fainter  call  of  some  wild  thing  stealing  forth  at 
nightfall  from  its  daytime  retreat.  Behind  us  the 
mesas  and  headlands  loomed  up  black  and  sullen, 
but  far  before  us  the  Sangre-de-Christo  Mountains 
lifted  their  glorified  crests,  with  the  sun's  last 
radiance  bathing  them  in  crimson  floods. 

We  sat  in  silence  for  a  long  time,  for  nobody 
cared  to  talk.  Presently  we  heard  Aunty  Boone's 
low,  penetrating  voice  inside  the  wagon  corral: 

"You  pore  gob  of  ugliness!  Yo'  done  yo'  best, 
and  it's  green  corn  and  plenty  of  watah  and  all  this 
grizzly-gray  grass  you  can  stuff  in  now.  It's 
good  for  a  mule  to  start  right,  same  as  a  man. 
Whoo-ee!" 

The  low  voice  trailed  off  into  weird  little  whoops 
of  approval.  Then  the  woman  wandered  away 
to  the  edge  of  the  bluff  and  sat  until  late  that  night, 
looking  out  at  the  strange,  entrancing  New  Mexi- 
c..n  landscape. 

"To-morrow  we  put  on  our  best  clothes  and  en- 
ter the  city,"  my  uncle  broke  the  silence.  "We 
have  managed  to  pull  through  so  far,  and  we  intend 
to  keep  on  pulling  till  we  unload  back  at  Inde- 


SPYING   OUT   THE   LAND 

pendence  again.  But  these  are  unsafe  times  and 
we  are  in  an  unsafe  country.  We  are  going  to  do 
business  and  get  out  of  it  again  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  shall  ask  you  all  to  be  ready  to  leave  at  a  minute's 
notice,  if  you  are  coming  back  with  me !" 

"Now  you  see  why  I  didn't  join  the  army,  don't 
you,  Krane?"  Bill  Banney  said,  aside.  "I  wanted 
to  work  under  a  real  general." 

Then  turning  to  my  uncle,  he  added : 

"I'm  already  contracted  for  the  round  trip, 
Clarenden." 

"You  are  going  to  start  back  just  as  if  there 
were  no  dangers  to  be  met?"  Rex  Krane  inquired. 

"As  if  there  were  dangers  to  be  met,  not  run 
from,"  Esmond  Clarenden  replied. 

"Clarenden,"  the  young  Bostonian  began, 
"you  got  away  from  that  drunken  mob  at  Inde- 
pendence with  your  children,  your  mules,  and  your 
big  Daniel  Boone.  You  started  out  when  war  was 
ragin'  on  the  Mexican  frontier,  and  never  stopped 
a  minute  because  you  had  to  come  it  alone  from 
Council  Grove.  You  shook  yourself  and  family 
right  through  the  teeth  of  that  Mexican  gang 
layin'  for  you  back  there.  You  took  Little  Trailing 
Arbutus  at  Pawnee  Rock  out  of  pure  sympathy 
when  you  knew  it  meant  a  fight  at  sun-up,  six 
against  fifty.  And  there  would  have  been  a  bloody 
one,  too,  but  for  that  merciful  West  India  hurri- 
cane bustin'  up  the  show.  You  pulled  us  up  the 
Arkansas  River,  and  straddled  the  Gloriettas,  with 
every  danger  that  could  ever  be  just  whistlin' 
about  our  ears.  And  now  you  sit  there  and  mur- 

89 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

mur  softly  that  'we  are  in  an  unsafe  country  and 
these  are  unsafe  times,'  so  we'd  better  be  toddlin' 
back  home  right  soon.  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing now." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Mat  Nivers.  Always 
he  looked  at  Mat  Nivers,  who  since  the  first  blush 
one  noonday  long  ago,  so  it  seemed,  now,  never 
appeared  to  know  or  care  where  he  looked.  He 
must  have  had  such  .a  sister  himself;  I  felt  sure 
of  that  now. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  Rex  repeated,  "that  I'm 
goin'  to  stay  with  you.  There's  something  safe 
about  you.  And  then,"  he  added,  carelessly,  as 
he  gazed  out  toward  the  darkening  plain  below  us, 
"my  mother  always  said  you  could  tie  to  a  man 
who  was  good  to  children.  And  you've  been  good 
to  this  infant  Kentuckian  here." 

He  flung  out  a  hand  toward  Bill  Banney  without 
looking  away  from  the  open  West.  "When  you 
want  to  start  back  to  God's  country  and  the  land  of 
Plymouth  Rocks  and  Pawnee  Rocks,  I'm  ready  to 
trot  along." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Krane,"  Esmond 
Clarenden  said.  "I  shall  need  all  the  help  I  can 
get  on  the  way  back.  Because  we  got  through 
safely  we  cannot  necessarily  count  on  a  safe 
return.  I  may  need  you  in  Santa  Fe,  too." 

"Then  command  me,"  Rex  replied. 

He  looked  toward  Mat  again,  but  she  and  Little 
Blue  Flower  were  coiling  their  long  hair  in  fantastic 
fashion  about  their  heads,  and  laughing  like 
school-girls  together. 

90 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

Little  Blue  Flower  was  as  a  shy  brown  fawn  fol- 
lowing us.  She  had  a  way  of  copying  Mat's  man- 
ner, and  she  spoke  less  of  Indian  and  Spanish  and 
more  of  English  from  day  to  day.  She  had  laid 
aside  her  Indian  dress  for  one  of  Mat's  neat  ging- 
ham gowns.  I  think  she  tried  hard  to  forget  her 
race  in  everything  except  her  prayers,  for  her  own 
people  had  all  been  slain  by  Mexican  ruffians. 
We  could  not  have  helped  liking  her  if  we  had 
tried  to  do  so.  Yet  that  invisible  race  barrier 
that  kept  a  fixed  gulf  between  us  and  Aunty 
Boone  separated  us  also  from  the  lovable  little 
Indian  lass,  albeit  the  gulf  was  far  less  deep  and 
impassable. 

To-night  when  she  and  Mat  scampered  away  to 
the  family  wagon  together,  she  seemed  somehow  to 
really  belong  to  us. 

Presently  Jondo  and  Rex  Krane  and  Bill  and 
Beverly  rolled  their  blankets  about  them  and 
went  to  sleep,  leaving  Esmond  Clarenden  and 
myself  alone  beside  the  dying  fire.  The  air  was 
sharp  and  the  night  silence  deepened  as  the  stars 
came  into  the  skies. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  bed,  Gail?"  my  uncle 
asked. 

' '  I'm  not  sleepy.     I'm  homesick, ' '  I  replied. 

"Come  here,  boy."  He  opened  his  arms  to  me, 
and  I  nestled  in  their  embrace. 

"You've  grown  a  lot  in  these  two  months,  little 
man,"  he  said,  softly.  "You  are  a  brave-hearted 
plainsman,  and  a  good,  strong  little  limb  when 
it  comes  to  endurance,  but  just  once  in  a  while 

91 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

all  of  us  need  a  mothering  touch.  It  keeps  us 
sweet,  my  boy.  It  keeps  us  sweet  and  fit  to  live." 

Oh,  many  a  time  in  the  years  that  followed  did 
the  loving  embrace  and  the  gentle  words  of  this 
gentle,  strong  man  come  back  to  comfort  me. 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  Gail.  I'm  going 
to  need  a  boy  like  you  to  help  me  a  lot  before  we 
leave  Santa  Fe,  and  I  shall  count  on  you." 

Just  then  a  noise  at  the  far  side  of  the  corral 
seemed  to  disturb  the  stock.  A  faint  stir  of 
awakening  or  surprise — just  a  hint  in  the  air. 
All  was  still  in  a  moment.  Then  it  came  again. 
We  listened.  Something,  an  indefinite  something, 
somewhere,  was  astir.  The  surprise  became  un- 
rest, anxiety,  fear,  among  the  mules. 

"Wait  here,  Gail.  I'll  see  what's  up,"  Uncle 
Esmond  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  hurried  away  toward  the  corral  and  I  slipped 
back  in  the  shadow  of  a  rock  and  leaned  against 
it  to  wait. 

In  the  dim  beams  of  a  starlit  New  Mexican  sky  I 
could  see  clearly  out  toward  the  valley,  but  be- 
hind the  camp  all  was  darkness.  As  I  waited, 
hidden  by  the  shadows,  suddenly  the  flap  of  the 
family- wagon  cover  lifted  and  Little  Blue  Flower 
slid  out  as  softly  as  a  cat  walks  in  the  dust.  She 
was  dressed  in  her  own  Indian  garb  now,  with  her 
bright  blanket  drawnx  picturesquely  about  her 
head  and  shoulders.  Silently  she  moved  about 
the  camp,  peering  toward  the  shadows  hiding  me. 
Then  with  noiseless  step  she  slipped  toward  where 
Beverly  Clarenden  lay,  his  boyish  face  upturned 

92 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

to  the  stars,  sleeping  the  dreamless  sleep  of  youth 
and  health.  I  leaned  forward  and  stared  hard  as 
the  girl  approached  him.  I  saw  her  drop  down  on 
one  knee  beside  him,  and,  bending  over  him,  she 
gently  kissed  his  forehead.  She  rose  and  gave 
one  hurried  look  around  the  place  and  then,  like 
a  bird  lifting  its  wings  for  flight,  she  threw  up  her 
arms,  and  in  another  moment  she  sprang  to  the 
edge  of  the  ridge  and  slipped  from  view.  I  fol- 
lowed, only  to  see  her  gliding  swiftly  away,  farther 
and  farther,  along  the  dim  trail,  until  the  shadows 
swallowed  her  from  my  sight. 

A  low  whinny  from  the  corral  caught  my  ear, 
followed  by  a  rush  of  horses'  feet.  As  I  slipped 
into  my  place  again  to  wait  for  my  uncle  to  return, 
the  smoldering  logs  blazed  out  suddenly,  lighting 
up  the  form  of  a  man  who  appeared  just  beyond 
the  fire,  so  that  I  saw  the  face  distinctly.  Then 
he,  too,  was  gone,  following  the  way  the  Indian 
girl  had  taken,  until  he  lost  himself  in  the  misty 
dullness  of  the  plains. 

Presently  Esmond  Clarenden  came  back  to  the 
camp-fire. 

"Gail,  the  pony  we  lost  in  that  storm  at  Pawnee 
Rock  has  come  back  to  us.  It  was  standing  out- 
side the  corral,  waiting  to  get  in,  just  as  if  it  had 
lost  us  for  a  couple  of  hours.  It  is  in  good  con- 
dition, too." 

"How  could  it  ever  get  here?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Any  one  of  a  dozen  ways,"  my  uncle  replied. 
"It  may  have  run  far  that  stormy  morning  when 
it  broke  out  of  the  corral,  and  possibly  some  party 

93 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

coming  over  the  Cimarron  Trail  picked  it  up  and 
roved  on  this  way.  There  is  no  telling  how  it  got 
here,  since  it  keeps  still  itself  about  the  matter. 
Losing  and  finding  and  losing  again  is  the  law  of 
events  on  the  plains." 

"But  why  should  it  find  us  right  here  to-night, 
like  it  had  been  led  back?"  I  insisted. 

"That's  the  miracle  of  it,  Gail.  It  is  always  the 
strange  thing  that  really  happens  here.  In  years 
to  come,  if  you  ever  tell  the  truth  about  this  trip, 
it  will  not  be  believed.  When  this  isn't  the  fron- 
tier any  longer,  the  story  of  the  trail  will  be  ac- 
counted impossible." 

Everything  seemed  impossible  to  me  as  I  sat 
there  staring  at  the  dying  fire.  Presently  I 
remembered  what  I  had  seen  while  my  uncle  was 
away. 

"Little  Blue  Flower  has  run  away,"  I  said, 
"and  I  saw  the  Mexican  that  came  to  Fort  Leav- 
enworth  the  day  before  I  twisted  my  ankle.  He 
slipped  by  here  just  a  minute  ago.  I  know,  for  I 
saw  his  face  when  the  logs  flared  up." 

Esmond  Clarenden  gave  a  start.  "Gail,  you 
have  the  most  remarkable  memory  for  faces  of 
any  child  I  ever  knew,"  he  said. 

"Did  he  follow  us,  too,  like  the  pony,  or  did  he 
ride  the  pony  after  us?"  I  asked.  "He's  just 
everywhere  we  go,  somehow.  Did  I  ever  see  him 
before  he  came  to  the  fort,  or  did  I  dream  it  ?" 

"You  are  a  little  dreamer,  Gail,"  my  uncle  said, 
kindly.  "But  dreams  don't  hurt,  if  you  do  your 
part  whenever  you  are  needed." 

94 


SPYING   OUT   THE   LAND 

"Bev  and  Bill  Banney  make  fun  of  dreams,"  I 
said. 

"Yes,  they  don't  have  'em;  but  Bev  and  Bill 
are  ready  when  it  comes  to  doing  things.  They 
are  a  good  deal  alike,  daring,  and  a  bit  reckless 
sometimes,  with  good  hard  sense  enough  to  keep 
them  level." 

"Don't  I  do,  too?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes,  you  do  and  dream,  both.  That's  all  the 
better.  But  you  mustn't  forget,  too,  that  some- 
times the  things  we  long  for  in  our  dreams  we  must 
fight  for,  and  even  die  for,  maybe,  that  those  who 
come  after  us  may  be  the  better  for  our  having 
them.  What  was  it  you  said  about  Little  Blue 
Flower?"  Uncle  Esmond  had  forgotten  her  for 
the  moment. 

"She's  gone  to  Santa  Fe,  I  reckon.  Is  she  bad, 
Uncle  Esmond?  Tell  me  all  about  things,"  I 
urged. 

"We  are  all  here  spying  out  the  land,  Mexi- 
can, Indian,  trader,  freighter,  adventurer,  in- 
valid," Uncle  Esmond  replied.  "I  don't  know 
what  started  the  little  Indian  girl  off,  unless  she 
just  felt  Indian,  as  Jondo  would  say;  but  I  may 
as  well  tell  you,  Gail,  that  it  may  have  been  the 
Mexican  who  got  our  pony  for  us.  He  is  a  strange 
fellow,  walks  like  a  cat,  has  ears  like  a  timber 
wolf,  and  the  cunning  of  a  fox." 

"Is  he  our  friend?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"Listen,  boy.  He  came  to  Fort  Leavenworth 
on  purpose  to  bring  me  an  important  message,  and 
he  waited  at  Independence  to  see  us  off.  Do  you 

95 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

remember  the  two  spies  Krane  talked  about  at 
Council  Grove?  I  think  he  followed  the  Mexican 
spy  across  the  river  to  our  camp  and  sent  him  on 
east.  Then  he  went  back  and  got  the  crowd  all 
mixed  up  by  his  report,  while  their  own  man 
scouted  the  trail  out  there  for  miles  all  night.  He 
is  the  man  who  put  you  through  town  and  de- 
coyed the  ruffians  to  one  side.  He  located  us 
after  we  had  crossed  the  river,  and  then  broke  up 
their  meeting  and  put  the  fellows  off  to  wait  till 
the  next  night.  That  is  the  way  I  worked  out 
that  Council  Grove  puzzle.  He  has  a  wide  range, 
and  there  are  big  things  ahead  for  him  in  New 
Mexico. 

"Sooner  or  later  however,"  my  uncle  went  on, 
"we  will  have  to  reckon  with  that  Kiowa  tribe  for 
stealing  their  captive.  They  meant  to  return  her 
for  a  big  ransom  price.  .  .  .  Great  Heavens,  Gail ! 
You  seem  like  a  man  to  me  to-night  instead  of  my 
little  boy  back  at  the  fort.  The  plains  bring  years 
to  us  instead  of  months,  with  just  one  crossing.  I 
am  counting  on  you  not  to  tell  all  you've  been  told 
and  all  you've  seen.  I  can  be  sure  of  you  if  you 
can  keep  things  to  yourself.  You'd  better  get  to 
sleep  now.  There  will  be  plenty  to  see  over  in 
Santa  Fe.  And  there  is  always  danger  afoot. 
But  remember,  it  is  the  coward  who  finds  the  most 
trouble  in  this  world.  Do  your  part  with  a  gentle- 
man's heart  and  a  hero's  hand,  and  you'll  get  to  the 
end  of  every  trail  safely.  Now  go  to  bed." 

Where  I  lay  that  night  I  could  see  a  wide  space 
of  star-gemmed  sky,  the  blue  night-sky  of  the 

96 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

Southwest,  and  I  wondered,  as  I  looked  up  into  the 
starry  deeps,  how  God  could  keep  so  many  bright 
bodies  afield  up  there,  and  yet  take  time  to  guard 
all  the  wandering  children  of  men. 

With  the  day-dawn  the  strange  events  of  the 
night  seemed  as  unreal  as  the  vanishing  night- 
shadows.  The  bluest  skies  of  a  blue-sky  land 
curved  in  fathomless  majesty  over  the  yellow 
valley  of  the  Santa  Fe.  Against  its  borders 
loomed  the  silent  mountain  ranges — purple-shad- 
dowed,  silver-topped  Ortiz  and  Jemez,  Sandia  and 
Sangre-de-Christo.  Dusty  and  deserted  lay  the 
trail,  save  that  here  and  there  a  group  of  dark- 
faced  carriers  of  firewood  prodded  on  their  fagot- 
laden  burros  toward  the  distant  town.  As  our 
wagons  halted  at  the  sandy  borders  of  an  arroyo  the 
brown-clad  form  of  a  priest  rose  up  from  the  shade 
of  a  group  of  scrubby  pifion-trees  beside  the  trail. 

Esmond  Clarenden  lifted  his  hat  in  greeting. 

"Are  you  going  our  way?  We  can  give  you  a 
ride,"  he  paused  to  say. 

The  man's  face  was  very  dark,  but  it  was  a 
young,  strong  face,  and  his  large,  dark  eyes  were 
full  of  the  fire  of  life.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
low  and  musical. 

"I  thank  you.  I  go  toward  the  mountains. 
You  stay  here  long?" 

' '  Only  to  dispose  of  my  goods.  My  business  is 
brief,"  Esmond  Clarenden  declared. 

The  good  man  leaned  forward  as  if  to  see  each 
face  there,  sweeping  in  everything  at  one  glance. 
Then  he  looked  down  at  the  ground. 

97 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"These  are  troublesome  days.  War  is  only  a 
temporary  evil,  but  it  makes  for  hate,  and  hate 
kills  as  it  dies.  Love  lives  and  gives  life."  A 
smile  lighted  his  eyes,  though  his  lips  were  firm. 
"I  wish  you  well.  Among  friends  or  enemies  the 
one  haven  of  safety  always  is  the  holy  sanctuary." 

Uncle  Esmond  bowed  his  head  reverently. 

"You  will  find  it  beside  the  trail  near  the  river. 
The  walls  are  very  old  and  strong,  but  not  so  old  as 
hate,  nor  so  strong  as  love.  A  little  street  runs 
from  it,  crooked — six  houses  away.  Peace  be  to 
all  of  you."  He  broke  off  suddenly  and  his  last 
sentence  was  spoken  in  a  clear,  strong  tone  unlike 
the  gentler  voice. 

"I  thank  you,  Father!"  Jondo  said,  as  the  priest 
passed  his  wagon. 

The  holy  man  gave  him  one  swift,  searching 
glance.  Then  lifting  his  right  hand  as  if  in  bless- 
ing, and  slowly  dropping  it  until  the  forefinger 
pointed  toward  the  west,  he  passed  on  his  way. 

Jondo's  brown  cheek  flushed  and  the  lines  about 
his  mouth  grew  hard. 

"Take  my  place,  Bev,"  he  said,  as  he  left  his 
wagon  and  joined  Esmond  Clarenden. 

The  two  spoke  earnestly  together.  Then  Jondo 
mounted  Beverly's  pony. 

"If  you  need  me — "  I  heard  him  say,  and  he 
turned  away  and  rode  in  the  direction  the  priest 
had  taken. 

Uncle  Esmond  offered  no  explanation  for  this 
sudden  action,  and  his  sunny  face  was  stern. 

Usually  wagon-trains  were  spied  out  long  before 
98 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

they  reached  the  city,  and  a  rabble  attended  their 
entry.  To-day  we  moved  along  quietly  until 
the  trail  became  a  mere  walled  lane.  On  either 
side  one-story  adobe  huts  sat  with  their  backs 
to  the  street.  No  windows  opened  to  the  front, 
and  only  a  wooden  door  or  a  closed  gateway 
stared  in  blank  unfriendliness  at  the  passer-by. 
Little  straggling  lanes  led  off  aimlessly  on  either 
side,  as  narrow  and  silent  as  the  strange  terminal 
of  the  long  trail  itself. 

I  was  only  a  boy,  with  the  heart  of  a  boy  and 
the  eyes  of  a  boy.  I  could  only  feel;  I  could  not 
understand  the  spell  of  that  hour.  But  to  me 
everything  was  alluring,  wrapt  as  it  was  in  the 
mystery  of  a  civilization  old  here  when  Plymouth 
Rock  felt  the  first  Pilgrim's  foot,  or  Pawnee  Rock 
stared  at  the  first  bold  plainsman  of  the  pale  face 
and  the  conquering  soul. 

I  was  riding  beside  Beverly's  wagon  as  we  neared 
the  quaint,  centuries-old,  adobe  church  of  San 
Miguel,  rising  tall  and  silent  above  the  low  huts 
about  it,  its  rough  walls  suggesting  a  fortress  of 
strength,  while  its  triple  towers  might  be  an  out- 
look for  a  guardsman. 

"Look  at  that  church.  Bev,  I  wonder  how  old 
it  is,"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  should  say  about  a  thousand  years  and  a 
day,"  Beverly  declared.  "See  that  flopsy  steeple 
thing!  It  looks  like  building-blocks  stacked  up 
there." 

"Maybe  this  is  the  sanctuary  that  priest  was 
talking  about,"  I  suggested.  "He  said  the  walls 

99 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

were  old  as  hate  and  strong  as  love,  with  a  crooked 
street  beside  it  somewhere." 

"Oh,  you  sponge!  Soaking  up  everything  you 
see  and  hear.  I  wonder  you  sleep  nights  for  fear 
the  wind  will  tell  the  pine  trees  something  you'll 
miss,"  Beverly  declared.  "I  can  tell  a  horse's 
age  by  its  teeth,  but  churches  don't  have  teeth. 
Go  and  ask  Mat  about  it.  She  knows  when  the 
De  Sotos  and  Corteses  and  all  the  other  Spanish 
grandaddees  came  to  Mexico." 

I  had  just  turned  back  alongside  of  Mat's 
wagon — she  was  always  our  book  of  ready  refer- 
ence— when  a  little  girl  suddenly  dashed  out  of  a 
walled  lane  opening  into  the  street  behind  us. 
She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  almost 
under  my  pony's  feet,  then  with  a  shout  of  laugh- 
ter she  dashed  into  the  deep  doorway  of  the  church 
and  stood  there,  peering  out  at  me  with  eyes  brim- 
ful of  mischief. 

I  brought  my  pony  back  on  its  haunches  sud- 
denly. I  had  seen  this  girl  before.  The  big 
dark  eyes,  the  straight  little  nose,  the  curve  of 
the  pink  cheek,  the  china-smooth  chin  and  neck, 
and,  crowning  all,  the  cloud  of  golden  hair  shad- 
ing her  forehead  and  falling  in  tangled  curls  be- 
hind. 

I  did  not  notice  all  these  features  now.  It  was 
only  the  eyes,  dark  eyes,  somewhere  this  side  of 
misty  mountain  peaks,  and  maybe  the  halo  of 
hair  that  had  been  in  my  vision  on  that  day  when 
Beverly  and  Mat  Nivers  and  I  sat  on  the  parade- 
ground  facing  a  sudden  turn  in  our  life  trail. 

IOO 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

I  stared  at  the  eyes  now,  only  half  conscious 
that  the  girl  was  laughing  at  me. 

"You  big  brown  bob-cat!  You  look  like  you 
had  slept  in  the  Hondo  'royo  all  your  life,"  she 
cried,  and-tumed  to  run  away  again. 

As  she  did  so  a  dark  face  peered  round  the  cor- 
ner of  the  church  from  the  crooked  street  beside  it. 
A  sudden  gleam  of  white  teeth  and  glistening  eyes, 
a  sudden  leap  and  grip,  and  a  boy,  larger  than 
Beverly,  caught  the  little  girl  by  the  shoulders  and 
shook  her  viciously. 

She  screamed  and  struggled.  Then,  with  a  wild 
shriek  as  he  clutched  at  her  curls,  she  wrenched 
herself  away  and  plunged  inside  the  church.  The 
boy  dived  in  after  her.  Another  scream,  and  I  had 
dropped  from  my  pony  and  leaped  across  the  road. 
I  pushed  open  the  door  against  the  two  struggling 
together.  With  one  grip  at  his  coat-collar  I  broke 
his  hold  on  the  little  girl  and  flung  him  outside. 

I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  a  priest  hurrying 
down  the  aisle  toward  the  fighting  children,  as  the 
little  girl,  freed  from  her  assailant,  dashed  out  of 
the  door. 

"He  jumped  at  her  first,  and  shook  her  and 
pulled  her  hair,"  I  cried,  as  the  priest  caught  me 
by  the  shoulder.  "I'm  not  going  to  see  anybody 
pitched  into,  not  a  little  girl,  anyhow." 

I  jerked  myself  free  from  his  grasp  and  ran  out 
to  my  pony.  At  the  corner  of  the  church  stood 
the  girl,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  blazing  defi- 
ance, her  rumpled  curls  in  a  tangle  about  her  face. 

"I  hate  Marcos,  he's  so  cruel,  and" — her  voice 

101 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

softened  and  the  defiant  eyes  grew  mischievous — 
"you  aren't  a  bob-cat.  You're  a — Look  out !" 

She  shouted  the  last  words  and  disappeared  up 
the  narrow,  crooked  street,  just  as  a  fragment  of 
rock  whizzed  over  my  shoulder.  I  jumped  on  my 
pony  to  dash  away,  when  another  rock  just  missed 
my  head,  and  I  saw  the  boy,  Marcos,  beside  the 
church,  ready  for  a  third  hurl.  His  black  eyes 
flashed  fire,  and  the  grin  of  malice  on  his  face 
showed  all  his  fine  white  teeth. 

I  was  as  mad  as  a  boy  can  be.  Instead  of  flee- 
ing, I  spurred  my  pony  straight  at  him. 

"You  little  beast,  I  dare  you  to  throw  that 
rock  at  me !  I  dare  you !"  I  cried. 

The  boy  dropped  the  missile  and  sped  away 
after  the  girl.  I  followed  in  time  to  see  them  enter 
a  doorway,  six  or  seven  houses  up  the  way.  Then 
I  turned  back,  and  in  a  minute  I  had  overtaken 
our  wagons  trailing  down  to  the  ford  of  the  Santa 
Fe  River. 

"I  thought  mebby  you'd  gone  back  after  Jondo 
and  that  holy  podder,"  Rex  Krane  greeted  me. 
"Better  begin  to  wink  naturally  and  look  a  little 
pleasanter  now.  We'll  be  in  the  Plazzer  in  two  or 
three  minutes." 

The  drivers  flourished  their  whips,  the  mules 
caught  their  spirit,  and  with  bump  and  lurch  and 
rattle  we  swung  down  the  narrow  crack  between 
adobe  walls  that  ended  before  the  old  Exchange 
Hotel  at  the  corner  of  the  Plaza. 

This  open  square  in  the  center  of  the  city  was 
shaded  by  trees  and  littered  with  refuse.  The 

102 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

Palace  of  the  Governors  fronted  it  along  the  entire 
north  side,  a  long,  low,  one-story  structure  whose 
massive  adobe  walls  defy  the  wearing  years. 
Compared  to  the  kingly  palaces  of  my  imagina- 
tion, this  royal  dwelling  seemed  a  very  common- 
place thing,  and  the  wide  portal,  or  veranda,  that 
ran  along  its  front  looked  like  one  of  the  sheds 
about  the  barracks  at  the  fort  rather  than  an  en- 
tranceway  for  rulers.  Yet  this  was  the  house  of  a 
ruler  hostile  to  that  flag  to  which  I  had  thrown  a 
good-by  kiss,  up  at  Fort  Leavenworth. 

On  the  other  three  sides  of  the  Plaza  were  other 
low  adobe  buildings,  for  the  business  of  the  city 
faced  this  central  square. 

A  crowd  was  gathered  there  when  we  reached  it. 
Somebody  standing  before  the  Palace  of  the  Gov- 
ernors was  haranguing  in  fiery  Spanish,  if  gesture 
and  oral  vehemence  are  true  tokens. 

As  our  wagons  rumbled  up  to  the  corner  of  the 
square  the  crowd  broke  up  with  a  shout. 

' '  Los  Americanos !     Los  Garros !' ' 

The  cry  went  up  everywhere  as  the  rabble  left 
the  speaker  to  flock  about  us — men,  women,  chil- 
dren, Mexican,  Spanish,  Indian,  with  now  and 
then  a  Saxon  face  among  them.  Our  outfit  was  as 
well  appointed  as  such  a  journey's  end  permitted. 
We  were  in  our  best  clothes — clean-shaven  gentle- 
men, well-dressed  boys,  and  one  girl,  neat  and 
comely  in  a  dark-blue  gown  of  thin  stuff  with  white 
lace  at  throat  and  wrist;  and  last,  and  biggest  of 
all,  Aunty  Boone,  in  a  bright-green  lawn  with  little 
white  dots  all  over  it. 
8  103 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

As  I  sat  on  my  pony  beside  my  uncle's  wagon,  I 
caught  sight  of  the  slim  figure  of  Little  Blue 
Flower,  well  back  in  the  shade  of  the  Plaza.  She 
was  watching  Beverly,  who  sat  in  Jondo's  wagon, 
staring  at  the  crowd  and  seeing  no  one  in  par- 
ticular. A  minute  later  a  tall  young  Indian  boy 
stepped  in  front  of  her,  and  when  he  moved  away 
she  was  gone. 

Many  men  came  forward  to  greet  Esmond 
Clarenden,  and  there  were  many  inquiries  re- 
garding his  goods  and  many  exclamations  of 
surprise  that  he  had  come  alone  with  so  valuable 
a  cargo. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Beverly  and  I  had  seen 
him  among  his  equals.  At  Fort  Leavenworth, 
where  the  army  overruled  everything  else,  men 
stood  above  him  in  authority  or  below  him  in 
business  affairs ;  and  while  he  never  cringed  to  the 
one,  nor  patronized  the  other,  where  there  are  no 
competitors  there  are  no  true  measures.  That  day 
in  the  Plaza  of  Santa  Fe  the  merchant  was  in 
his  own  kingdom,  where  commerce  stood  above 
everything  else. 

Moreover,  this  American  merchant,  following  a 
danger-girt  trail,  had  come  in  fearlessly,  and  those 
men  of  the  Plaza  knew  that  he  was  one  to  exact 
value  for  value  in  all  his  dealings.  But  I  believe 
that  his  real  power  lay  in  his  ready  smile,  his 
courtesy,  his  patience,  and  his  up-bubbling  good 
nature  that  made  him  a  friendship-builder. 

Among  the  men  who  came  to  make  acquaintance 
with  the  American  trader  was  a  Mexican  merchant. 

104 


SPYING   OUT   THE    LAND 

Evidently  he  was  a  man  of  some  importance,  for  an 
interpreter  hastened  to  introduce  him,  explaining 
that  this  man  had  been  away  on  a  journey  of  some 
weeks  among  the  mines  of  New  Mexico  and  the 
Southwest,  and  only  the  day  before  he  had  come 
in  from  Taos. 

"You  will  find  him  a  prince  of  merchants,  a 
sound,  unprejudiced  business  man.  His  name  is 
Felix  Narveo,"  the  American  interpreter  added. 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  greeting  each  other 
in  the  Spanish  tongue.  This  Felix  Narveo  was 
well  dressed  and  well  groomed,  but  I  recognized 
him  at  once  as  the  Mexican  of  Fort  Leavenworth 
and  Independence  and  Council  Grove. 

There  was  one  man  in  that  company,  however, 
who  did  not  come  forward  at  all.  When  I  first 
caught  sight  of  him  he  was  looking  at  me.  I 
stared  back  at  him  with  a  boy's  curiosity,  but  he 
did  not  take  his  eyes  from  me  until  I  had  dropped 
my  own.  After  that  I  watched  him  keenly.  He 
seemed  almost  too  fair  for  a  Mexican — a  tall, 
spare-built  man  with  black  hair,  and  eyes  so 
steely  blue  that  they  were  almost  black.  Every- 
where I  saw  him — at  the  corners  of  the  little 
crowd  and  in  the  thick  of  it.  He  was  an  easy 
mark,  for  he  towered  above  the  rest,  and,  being 
slender,  he  seemed  to  worm  his  way  quickly  from 
place  to  place.  At  sight  of  him,  Aunty  Boone, 
who  had  been  peering  out  with  shining  eyes,  drew 
her  head  in  as  quick  as  a  snake,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  wagon  cover,  and  her  eyes  grew  dull.  He 
had  not  seen  her,  but  I  could  see  that  he  was 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

watching  the  remainder  of  us,  and  especially  my 
uncle;  and  I  began  to  feel  afraid  of  him  and  to 
wish  that  he  would  leave  the  Plaza.  It  was  years 
ago  that  all  this  happened,  and  yet  to-day  my 
fear  of  that  man  still  sticks  in  my  memory. 

When  he  turned  away,  suddenly  I  caught  sight 
of  the  boy,  whom  I  had  flung  out  of  the  church, 
standing  behind  him,  the  boy  whom  the  little  girl 
had  called  Marcos.  Although  his  face  was  dark 
and  the  man's  was  fair,  there  was  a  strong  likeness 
between  the  two. 

This  Marcos  stared  insolently  at  all  of  us.  Then 
with  a  laugh  and  a  grimace  at  me,  he  ran  after  the 
man  and  they  disappeared  together  around  the 
corner  of  the  Palace  of  the  Governors.  And  in 
the  rush  of  strange  sights  I  forgot  them  both  for 
a  time. 


VII 

"SANCTUARY" 

Our  dwelling-place  in  all  generations. — Psalms  xc,  I. 

THEY  are  wonderful  to  me  still  —  those  few 
brief  days  that  followed.  While  Esmond 
Clarenden  was  forcing  his  business  transactions  to 
a  speedy  climax,  he  was  all  the  time  foreseeing 
Santa  Fe  under  the  United  States  Government. 
He  had  not  come  here  as  a  spy,  nor  a  speculator, 
but  as  a  commerce-builder,  knowing  that  the  same 
business  life  would  go  on  when  the  war  cloud  lifted, 
and  that  the  same  men  who  had  made  the  plains 
commerce  profitable  under  the  Mexican  flag  would 
not  be  exiled  when  the  Stars  and  Stripes  should 
float  above  the  old  Palace  of  the  Governors. 
Belief  in  the  ethics  of  his  calling  and  trust  in  man- 
hood  were  ever  a  large  part  of  his  stock  in  trade, 
making  him  dare  to  go  where  he  chose  to  go,  and  to 
do  what  he  willed  to  do. 

But  no  concern  for  commerce  nor  extension  of 
national  territory  disturbed  our  young  minds  in 
those  sunlit  days,  as  Mat  and  Beverly  and  I 
looked  with  the  big,  quick-seeing  eyes  of  youth  on 
this  new  strange  world  at  the  end  of  the  trail. 

107 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

We  were  all  together  in  the  deserted  dining- 
room  on  our  first  evening  in  Santa  Fe  when  the 
man  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  Plaza  strolled  leisure- 
ly in.  He  sat  down  at  one  of  the  farthest  tables 
from  us,  and  his  eyes,  glistening  like  blue-black 
steel,  were  fixed  on  us. 

Once  at  Fort  Leavenworth  I  had  watched  in 
terror  as  a  bird  fluttered  helplessly  toward  a  still, 
steel-eyed  snake  holding  it  in  thrall.  And  just 
at  the  moment  when  its  enemy  was  ready  to  strike, 
Jondo  had  happened  by  and  shot  the  snake's 
head  off.  The  same  terror  possessed  me  now,  and 
I  began  half-consciously  to  long  for  Jondo. 

In  the  midst  of  new  sights  I  had  hardly  thought 
of  him  since  he  had  left  us  out  beyond  the  big 
arroyo.  He  had  come  into  town  at  dusk,  but  soon 
after  supper  he  had  disappeared.  His  face  was 
very  pale,  and  his  eyes  had  a  strange  look  that 
never  left  them  again.  Something  was  different  in 
Jondo  from  that  day,  but  it  did  not  change  his 
gentle  nature  toward  his  fellow-men.  During  our 
short  stay  in  Santa  Fe  we  hardly  saw  him  at  all. 
We  children  were  too  busy  with  other  things  to 
ask  questions,  and  everybody  but  Rex  Krane  was 
too  busy  to  be  questioned.  Having  nothing  else 
to  do,  Rex  became  our  chaperon,  as  Uncle  Esmond 
must  have  foreseen  he  would  be  when  he  meas- 
ured the  young  man  in  Independence  on  the  day 
we  left  there. 

To-night  Esmond  Clarenden,  smiling  and  good- 
natured,  paid  no  heed  to  the  sharp  eyes  of  this 
stranger  fixed  on  him. 

1 08 


"SANCTUARY' 

"What's  the  matter  now,  little  weather-vane? 
You  are  always  first  to  sense  a  coming  change," 
he  declared. 

"Uncle  Esmond,  I  saw  that  man  watching  us 
like  he  knew  us,  out  there  on  the  Plaza  to-day. 
Who  is  he  ?"  I  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

"His  name  is  Ferdinand  Ramero.  You  will 
find  him  watching  everywhere.  Let  that  man 
alone  as  you  would  a  snake,"  my  uncle  warned  us. 

"Is  that  his  boy?"  I  asked. 

"What  boy?"  Uncle  Esmond  inquired. 

"Marcos,  the  boy  I  pitched  endways  out  of  the 
church.  He's  bigger  than  Bev,  too,"  I  declared, 
proudly. 

"Gail  Clarenden,  are  you  crazy?"  Uncle  Esmond 
exclaimed. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  I  insisted,  and  then  I  told  what 
had  happened  at  the  church,  adding,  ' '  I  saw  Mar- 
cos with  that  man  in  the  Plaza,  and  they  went 
away  together." 

Esmond  Claren den's  face  grew  grave. 

"What  kind  of  a  looking  child  was  she,  Gail?" 
he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  she  had  yellow  hair  and  big  sort  of  dark 
eyes !  She  could  squeal  like  anything.  She  wasn't 
a  baby  girl  at  all,  but  a  regular  little  fighter  kind  of 
a  girl." 

I  grew  bashful  all  at  once  and  hesitated,  but 
my  uncle  did  not  seem  to  hear  me,  for  he  turned  to 
Rex  Krane  and  said,  in  low,  earnest  tones : 

' '  Krane,  if  you  can  locate  that  child  for  me  you 
will  do  me  an  invaluable  service.  It  was  largely  on 

109 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

her  account  that  I  came  here  now,  and  it's  a  god- 
send to  have  a  fellow  like  you  to  save  time  for  me. 
Every  man  has  his  uses.  Your  service  will  be  a 
big  one  to  me." 

The  young  man's  face  flushed  and  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  new  light. 

"If  any  of  you  happen  to  see  that  girl  let  me 
know  at  once,"  my  uncle  said,  turning  to  us, 
"but,  remember,  don't  act  as  if  you  were  hunting 
for  her." 

"I  know  now  right  where  she  lives.  It's  up  a 
crooked  street  by  that  church.  I  saw  her  run  in 
there,"  I  insisted. 

' '  Every  hut  looks  like  every  other  hut,  and  every 
little  Mex  looks  like  every  other  little  Mex," 
Beverly  declared. 

Uncle  Esmond  smiled,  but  the  stern  lines  in  his 
face  hardly  broke  as  he  said,  earnestly,  ' '  Keep  your 
eyes  open  and,  whatever  you  do,  stay  close  to  Krane 
while  Bill  helps  me  here,  and  don't  forget  to  watch 
for  that  little  girl  when  you  are  sight-seeing." 

"There's  not  much  to  see,  as  Bev  says,  but  the 
outside  of  'dobe  walls  five  feet  thick,"  Rex  Krane 
observed.  "But  if  you  know  which  wall  to  look 
through,  the  lookin'  may  be  easy  enough.  Seein' 
things  is  my  specialty,  and  we'll  get  this  princess  if 
we  have  to  slay  a  giant  and  an  ogre  and  take  a 
few  dozen  Mexican  scalps  first.  The  plot  just 
thickens.  It's  a  great  game."  The  tall  New- 
Englander  would  not  take  life  seriously  anywhere, 
and,  with  our  trust  in  his  guardianship,  we  could 
want  no  better  chaperon. 

no 


"SANCTUARY' 

That  night  Beverly  Clarenden  and  I  were  in 
fairyland. 

"It's  the  princess,  Bev,  the  princess  we  were 
looking  for,"  I  joyously  asserted.  "And,  oh, 
Bev,  she  is  beautiful,  but  snappy-like,  too.  She 
called  me  a  'big  brown  bob-cat',  and  then  she 
apologized,  just  as  nice  as  could  be." 

"And  this  little  Marcos  cuss,  he'll  be  the  ogre," 
Beverly  declared.  "But  who'll  we  have  for  the 
giant?  That  priest,  footing  it  out  by  that  dry 
creek-thing  they  call  a  'royo?" 

"Oh  no,  no!  He  and  Jondo  made  up  together, 
and  Jondo' s  nobody's  bad  man  even  in  a  story. 
It  will  be  that  Ferdinand  Ramero,"  I  insisted. 
"But,  say,  Bev,  Jondo  wrote  a  new  name  on  the 
register  this  evening,  or  somebody  wrote  it  for 
him,  maybe.  It  wasn't  his  own  writing.  'Jean 
Deau. '  I  saw  it  in  big,  round,  back-slanting 
letters.  Why  did  he  do  that?" 

"Well,  I  reckon  that's  his  real  name  in  big, 
round,  back-slanting  letters  down  here,"  Beverly 
replied.  "It's  French,  and  we  have  just  been 
spelling  it  like  it  sounds,  that's  all." 

"Well,  maybe  so,"  I  commented,  and  when  I 
fell  asleep  it  was  to  dream  of  a  princess  and  Jondo 
by  a  strange  name,  but  the  same  Jondo. 

The  air  of  New  Mexico  puts  iron  into  the  blood. 
The  trail  life  had  hardened  us  all,  but  the  finishing 
touch  for  Rex  Krane  came  in  the  invigorating 
breath  of  that  mountain-cooled,  sun-cleansed  at- 
mosphere of  Santa  Fe.  Shrewd,  philosophic, 
brave-hearted  like  his  historic  ancestry,  he  laid 

in 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

his  plans  carefully  now,  sure  of  doing  what  he  was 
set  to  do.  And  the  wholesome  sense  of  really 
serving  the  man  who  had  measured  his  worth  at 
a  glance  gave  him  a  pleasure  he  had  not  known 
before.  Of  course,  he  moved  slowly  and  indif- 
ferently. One  could  never  imagine  Rex  Krane 
hurrying  about  anything. 

"We'll  just  'prospect,'  as  Daniel  Boone  says," 
he  declared,  as  he  marshaled  us  for  the  day. 
"We  are  strangers,  sight-seein',  got  no  other  busi- 
ness on  earth,  least  of  all  any  to  take  us  up  to  this 
old  San  Miguel  Church  for  unholy  purposes. 
'Course  if  we  see  a  pretty  little  dark-eyed,  golden- 
haired  lassie  anywhere,  we'll  just  make  a  diagram 
of  the  spot  she's  stand'n'  on,  for  future  reference. 
We're  in  this  game  to  win,  but  we  don't  do  no 
foolish  hurryin'  about  it." 

So  we  wandered  away,  a  happy  quartet,  and  the 
city  offered  us  strange  sights  on  every  hand.  It 
was  all  so  old,  so  different,  so  silent,  so  baffling — the 
narrow,  crooked  street;  the  solid  house-walls  that 
hemmed  them  in;  the  strange  tongue,  strange  dress, 
strange  customs;  the  absence  of  smiling  faces  or 
friendly  greetings;  the  sudden  mystery  of  seeking 
for  one  whom  we  must  not  seem  to  seek,  and  the 
consciousness  of  an  enemy,  Ferdinand  Ramero, 
whom  we  must  avoid — that  it  is  small  wonder  that 
we  lived  in  fairyland. 

We  saw  the  boy,  Marcos,  here  and  there,  some- 
times staring  defiantly  at  us  from  some  projected 
angle;  sometimes  slipping  out  of  sight  as  we  ap- 
proached; sometimes  quarreling  with  other  chil- 

112 


'SANCTUARY' 

dren  at  their  play.  But  nowhere,  since  the  moment 
when  I  had  seen  the  door  close  on  her  up  that 
crooked  street  beside  the  old  church,  could  we 
find  any  trace  of  the  little  girl. 

In  the  dim  morning  light  of  our  fifth  day  in 
Santa  Fe,  a  man  on  horseback,  carrying  a  big, 
bulky  bundle  in  his  arms,  slipped  out  of  the 
crooked,  shadow-filled  street  beside  the  old  church 
of  San  Miguel.  He  halted  a  moment  before  the 
structure  and  looked  up  at  the  ancient  crude  spire 
outlined  against  the  sky,  then  sped  down  the 
narrow  way  by  the  hotel  at  the  end  of  the  trail. 
He  crossed  the  Plaza  swiftly  and  dashed  out 
beyond  the  Palace  of  the  Governors  and  turned 
toward  the  west. 

Aunty  Boone,  who  slept  in  the  family  wagon 
— or  under  it — in  the  inclosure  at  the  rear  of 
the  hotel,  had  risen  in  time  to  peer  out  of  the 
wooden  gate  just  as  the  rider  was  passing.  It 
was  still  too  dark  to  see  the  man's  face  distinctly, 
but  his  form,  and  the  burden  he  carried,  and  the 
trappings  of  the  horse  she  noted  carefully,  as  was 
her  habit. 

''Up  to  cussedness,  that  man  is.  Mighty  long 
an'  slim.  Lemme  see!  Humph!  I  know  him. 
I'll  go  wake  up  somebody." 

As  the  woman  leaned  far  out  of  the  gate  she 
caught  sight  of  a  little  Indian  girl  crouching  out- 
side of  the  wall. 

"You  got  no  business  here,  you,  Little  Blue 
Flower!  Where  do  you  live  when  you  do  live?" 

Little  Blue  Flower  pointed  toward  the  west. 
"3 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Why  you  come  hangin'  'round  here?"  the 
African  woman  demanded. 

"Father  Josef  send  me  to  help  the  people  who 
help  me,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  low  voice. 

"Go  back  to  your  own  folks,  then,  and  tell  your 
Daddy  Joseph  a  man  just  stole  a  big  bunch  of 
something  and  rode  south  with  it.  He  can  look 
after  that  man.  We  can  get  along  somehow. 
Now  go." 

The  voice  was  like  a  growl,  and  the  little  Indian 
maiden  shrank  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall. 
The  next  minute  Aunty  Boone  was  rapping  softly 
on  the  door  of  the  room  whose  guest  had  regis- 
tered as  Jean  Deau.  Ten  minutes  later  another 
horseman  left  the  street  beside  the  hotel  and 
crossed  the  Plaza,  riding  erect  and  open-faced  as 
only  Jondo  could  ride.  Then  the  African  woman 
sought  out  Rex  Krane,  and  in  a  few  brief  sentences 
told  him  what  had  been  taking  place.  All  of 
which  Rex  was  far  too  wise  to  repeat  to  Beverly 
and  me. 

That  afternoon  it  happened  that  we  left  Mat 
Nivers  at  the  hotel,  while  Rex  Krane  and  Beverly 
and  I  strolled  out  of  town  on  a  well-beaten  trail 
leading  toward  the  west. 

"It  looks  interestin'.  Let's  go  on  a  ways," 
Rex  commented,  lazily. 

Nobody  would  have  guessed  from  his  manner  but 
that  he  was  indulgently  helping  us  to  have  a  good 
time  with  certain  restriction  as  to  where  we  should 
go,  and  what  we  might  say,  nor  that,  of  the  three, 
he  was  the  most  alert  and  full  of  definite  purpose. 

114 


"SANCTUARY' 

We  sat  down  beside  the  way  as  a  line  of  burros 
loaded  with  fire-wood  from  the  mountains  trailed 
slowly  by,  with  their  stolid-looking  drivers  staring 
at  us  in  silent  unfriendliness. 

The  last  driver  was  the  tall  young  Indian  boy 
whom  I  had  seen  standing  in  front  of  Little  Blue 
Flower  in  the  crowd  of  the  Plaza.  He  paid  no  heed 
to  our  presence,  and  his  face  was  expressionless  as 
he  passed  us. 

"Stupid  as  his  own  burro,  and  not  nearly  so 
handsome,"  Beverly  commented. 

The  boy  turned  quietly  and  stared  at  my  cousin, 
who  had  not  meant  to  be  overheard.  Nobody 
could  read  the  meaning  of  that  look,  for  his  face 
was  as  impenetrable  as  the  adobe  walls  of  the 
Palace  of  the  Governors. 

"Bev,  you  are  laying  up  trouble.  An  Indian 
never  forgets,  and  you'll  be  finding  that  fellow 
under  your  pillow  every  night  till  he  gets  your 
scalp,"  Rex  Krane  declared,  as  we  went  on  our 
way. 

Beverly  laughed  and  stiffened  his  sturdy  young 
arms. 

"He's  welcome  to  it  if  he  can  get  it,"  he  said, 
carelessly.  "How  many  million  miles  do  we  go 
to-day,  Mr.  Krane?" 

"Yonder  is  your  terminal,"  Rex  replied,  point- 
ing to  a  little  settlement  of  mud  huts  huddling 
together  along  the  trail.  They  call  that  little 
metropolis  Agua  Fria — 'pure  water' — because 
there  ain't  no  wate-r  there.  It's  the  last  place  to 
look  for  anybody.  That's  why  we  look  there. 

"5 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

You  will  go  in  like  gentlemen,  though — and  don't 
be  surprised  nor  make  any  great  noise  over  any- 
thing you  see  there.  If  a  riot  starts  I'll  do  the 
startin'." 

Carelessly  as  this  was  said,  we  understood  the 
command  behind  it. 

Near  the  village,  I  happened  to  glance  back  over 
the  way  we  had  come,  and  there,  striding  in,  soft- 
footed  as  a  cat  behind  us,  was  that  young  Indian. 
I  turned  again  just  as  we  reached  the  first  strag- 
ling  houses  at  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement, 
but  he  had  disappeared. 

It  was  a  strange  little  village,  this  Agua  Fria. 
Its  squat  dwellings,  with  impenetrable  adobe  walls, 
had  sat  out  there  on  the  sandy  edge  of  the  dry 
Santa  Fe  River  through  many  and  many  a  lagging 
decade;  a  single  trail  hardly  more  than  a  cart- 
width  across  ran  through  it.  A  church,  mud- 
walled  and  ancient,  rose  above  the  low  houses, 
but  of  order  or  uniformity  of  outline  there  was 
none.  Hands  long  gone  to  dust  had  shaped  those 
crude  dwellings  on  this  sunny  plain  where  only 
man  decays,  though  what  he  builds  endures. 

Nobody  was  in  sight  and  there  was  something 
awesome  in  the  very  silence  everywhere.  Rex 
lounged  carelessly  along,  as  one  who  had  no  par- 
ticular aim  in  view  and  was  likely  to  turn  back  at 
any  moment.  But  Beverly  and  I  stared  hard  in 
every  direction. 

At  the  end  of  the  village  two  tiny  mud  huts, 
separated  from  each  other  by  a  mere  crack  of 
space,  encroached  on  this  narrow  way  even  a 

116 


"SANCTUARY' 

trifle  more  than  the  neighboring  huts.     As  we 
were  passing  these  a  soft  Hopi  voice  called : 

"Beverly!  Beverly!"  And  Little  Blue  Flower, 
peeping  shyly  out  from  the  narrow  opening, 
lifted  a  warning  hand. 

"The  church!  The  church!"  she  repeated, 
softly,  then  darted  out  of  sight,  as  if  the  brown 
wall  were  but  thick  brown  vapor  into  which  she 
melted. 

"Why,  it's  our  own  little  girl!"  Beverly  ex- 
claimed, with  a  smile,  just  as  Little  Blue  Flower 
turned  away,  but  I  am  sure  she  caught  his  words 
and  saw  his  smile. 

We  would  have  called  to  her,  but  Rex  Krane 
evidently  did  not  hear  her,  for  he  neither  halted 
nor  turned  his  head.  So,  remembering  our  com- 
mand to  be  quiet,  we  passed  on. 

"I  guess  we  are  about  to  the  end  of  this  'pure 
water'  resort.  It's  gettin'  late.  Let's  go  back 
home  now,"  our  leader  said,  dispiritedly.  So  we 
turned  back  toward  Santa  Fe. 

At  the  narrow  opening  where  we  had  seen  Little 
Blue  Flower  the  young  Indian  boy  stood  upright 
and  motionless,  and  again  he  gave  no  sign  of  seeing 
us. 

"Let's  just  run  over  to  that  church  a  minute 
while  we  are  here.  Looks  interestin'  over  there," 
Rex  suggested. 

I  wondered  if  he  could  have  heard  Little  Blue 
Flower,  and  thought  her  suggestion  was  a  good 
one,  or  if  this  was  a  mere  whim  of  his. 

The  church,  a  crude  mission  structure,  stood 
117 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

some  distance  from  the  trail.  As  we  entered  a 
priest  came  forward  to  meet  us. 

"Can  I  serve  you?"  he  asked. 

The  voice  was  clear  and  sweet — the  same  voice 
that  we  had  heard  out  beyond  the  arroyo  southeast 
of  town,  the  same  face,  too,  that  we  had  seen,  with 
the  big  dark  eyes  full  of  fire.  Involuntarily  I  re- 
called how  his  hand  had  pointed  to  the  west  when 
he  had  pronounced  a  blessing  that  day. 

"Thank  you,  Father — "  Rex  began. 

"Josef,"  the  holy  man  said. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Father  Josef.  We  are  just 
looking  at  things.  No  wish  to  be  rude,  you 
know." 

Rex  lifted  his  cap  and  stood  bareheaded  in  the 
priestly  presence. 

Father  Josef  smiled. 

"Look  here,  then." 

He  led  us  up  the  aisle  to  where,  cuddled  down  on 
a  crude  seat,  a  little  girl  lay  asleep.  Her  golden 
hair  fell  like  a  cloud  about  her  face,  flowing  over 
the  edge  of  the  seat  almost  to  the  floor.  Her 
cheeks  were  pink  and  warm,  and  her  dimpled 
white  hands  were  clasped  together.  I  had  caught 
Mat  Nivers  napping  many  a  time,  but  never  in 
my  life  had  I  seen  anything  half  so  sweet  as  this 
sleeping  girl  in  the  beauty  of  her  innocence.  And 
I  knew  at  a  glance  that  this  was  the  same  girl 
whom  I  had  seen  before  at  the  door  of  the  old 
Church  of  San  Miguel. 

"Same  as  grown-ups  when  the  sermon  is  dull. 
Thank  you,  Father  Josef.  It's  a  pretty  picture. 

118 


"SANCTUARY5 

We  must  be  goin'  now."  Rex  Krane  dropped 
some  silver  in  the  priest's  hand  and  we  left  the 
church. 

At  the  door  we  passed  the  Indian  boy  again, 
and  a  third  time  he  gave  no  sign  of  seeing  us.  I 
was  the  only  one  who  was  troubled,  however,  for 
Rex  and  Beverly  did  not  seem  to  notice  him.  As 
we  left  the  village  I  caught  sight  of  him  again  fol- 
lowing behind  us. 

' '  Look  there,  Bev,"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Beverly  glanced  back,  then  turned  and  stared 
defiantly  at  the  boy. 

"Maybe  Rex  knows  about  Indians,"  he  said, 
lightly.  "That's  three  times  I  found  him  fooling 
around  in  less  than  an  hour,  but  my  scalp  is  still 
hanging  over  one  ear." 

He  pushed  back  his  cap  and  pulled  at  his  bright 
brown  locks.  Happy  Bev!  How  headstrong, 
brave,  and  care-free  he  walked  the  plains  that  day. 

The  evening  shadows  were  lenthening  and  the 
peaks  of  the  Sangre-de-Christo  range  were  taking 
on  the  scarlet  stains  of  sunset  when  we  raced  into 
town  at  last.  Rex  Krane  went  at  once  to  find 
Uncle  Esmond,  and  Beverly  and  I  hurried  to  the 
hotel  to  tell  Mat  of  all  that  we  had  seen. 

Her  gray  eyes  were  glowing  when  she  met  us  at 
the  door  and  led  us  into  a  corner  where  we  could 
talk  by  ourselves. 

"Uncle  Esmond  has  sold  everything  to  that 
Mexican  merchant,  Felix  Narveo,  and  we  are  going 
to  start  home  just  as  soon  as  he  can  find  that  little 
girl." 

9  HO 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

"Oh,  we've  found  her!  We've  found  her!" 
Beverly  burst  out.  But  Mat  hushed  him  at  once. 

"Don't  yell  it  to  the  skies,  Beverly  Clarenden. 
Now  listen!"  Mat  dropped  her  voice  almost  to  a 
whisper.  ' '  He's  going  to  take  that  little  girl  back 
with  us  as  far  as  Fort  Leavenworth,  and  then  send 
her  on  to  St.  Louis,  where  she  has  some  folks,  I 
guess." 

"Isn't  he  a  clipper,  though,"  Beverly  exclaimed. 

"But  what  if  the  Indians  should  get  us?"  I 
asked,  anxiously.  "I  heard  the  colonel  at  Fort 
Leavenworth  just  give  it  to  Uncle  Esmond  one 
night  for  bringing  us." 

"You  are  safe  or  you  are  not  safe  everywhere. 
And  if  we  got  in  here  I  reckon  we  can  get  out," 
Mat  reasoned,  philosophically.  "And  Uncle  Es- 
mond isn't  afraid  and  he's  set  on  doing  it.  We 
aren't  going  to  take  any  goods  back,  so  we  can 
travel  lots  faster,  and  everything  will  be  put  in 
the  wagons  so  we  can  grab  out  what's  worth  most 
in  a  hurry  if  we  have  to. ' ' 

So  we  talked  matters  over  now  as  we  had  done 
on  that  April  day  out  on  the  parade-ground  at 
Fort  Leavenworth.  But  now  we  knew  something 
of  what  might  be  before  us  on  that  homeward 
journey.  Thrilling  hours  those  were.  It  is  no 
wonder  that,  schooled  by  their  events,  young  as  we 
were,  we  put  away  childish  things. 

Tkat  night  while  we  slept  things  happened  of 
which  we  knew  nothing  for  many  years.  There 
was  no  moon  and  the  glaring  yellow  daytime  plain 
was  full  of  gray-edged  shadows,  under  the  far 

120 


"SANCTUARY1 

stars  of  a  midnight  blue  sky,  as  Esmond  Clarenden 
took  the  same  trail  that  we  had  followed  in  the 
afternoon.  On  to  the  village  of  Agua  Fria,  black 
and  silent,  he  rode  until  he  came  to  the  church 
door.  Here  he  dismounted,  and,  quickly  securing 
his  horse,  he  entered  the  building.  The  chill  mid- 
night wind  swept  in  through  the  open  door  behind 
him,  threatening  to  blot  out  the  flickering  candles 
about  the  altar.  Father  Josef  came  slowly  down 
the  aisle  to  meet  him,  while  a  tall  man,  crouching 
like  a  beast  about  to  spring,  rather  than  a  penitent 
at  prayer,  shrank  down  in  the  shadowy  corner 
inside  the  doorway. 

The  merchant,  solid  and  square-built  and  fear- 
less, stood  before  the  young  priest  baring  his 
head  as  he  spoke. 

"I  come  on  a  grave  errand,  good  Father.  This 
afternoon  my  two  nephews  and  a  young  man  from 
New  England  came  in  here  and  saw  a  child  asleep 
under  protection  of  this  holy  sanctuary.  That 
child's  name  is  Eloise  St.  Vrain.  I  had  hoped  to 
find  her  mother  able  to  care  for  her.  She — cannot 
do  it,  as  you  know.  I  must  do  it  for  her  now.  I 
come  here  to  claim  what  it  is  my  duty  to  protect." 

At  these  words  the  crouching  figure  sprang  up 
and  Ferdinand  Ramero,  his  steel-blue  eyes  blaz- 
ing, came  forward  with  cat-like  softness.  But 
the  sturdy  little  man  before  the  priest  stood,  hat 
in  hand,  undisturbed  by  any  presence  there. 

"Father  Josef,"  the  tall  man  began,  in  a  voice 
of  menace,  "y°u  will  not  protect  this  American 
here.  I  have  confessed  to  you  and  you  know  that 

121 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

this  man  is  my  enemy.  He  comes,  a  traitor  to  his 
own  country  and  a  spy  to  ours.  He  has  risked 
the  lives  of  three  children  by  bringing  them  across 
the  plains.  He  comes  alone  where  large  wagon- 
trains  dare  not  venture.  He  could  not  go  back 
to  the  States  now.  And  lastly,  good  Father,  he 
has  no  right  to  the  child  that  he  claims  is  here." 

"To  the  child  that  is  here,  asleep  beside  our 
sacred  altar,"  Father  Josef  said,  sternly. 

Ferdinand  Ramero  turned  upon  the  priest 
fiercely. 

"Even  the  Church  might  go  too  far,"  he  mut- 
tered, threateningly. 

"It  might,  but  it  never  has,"  the  holy  man 
agreed.  Then  turning  to  Esmond  Clarenden,  he 
continued:  "You  must  see  that  these  charges  do 
not  stand  against  you.  Our  Holy  Church  offers  no 
protection,  outside  of  these  four  walls,  to  a  traitor 
or  a  spy  or  even  an  unpatriotic  speculator  seeking 
to  profit  by  the  needs  of  war.  Nor  could  it  sanc- 
tion giving  the  guardianship  of  a  child  to  one  who 
daringly  imperils  his  own  life  or  the  lives  of  chil- 
dren, nor  can  it  sanction  any  rights  of  guardian- 
ship unless  due  cause  be  given  for  granting  them." 

Ferdinand  Ramero  smiled  as  the  priest  con- 
cluded. He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  the  sort 
of  compelling  magnetism  that  gives  controlling 
power  to  its  possessor.  But  because  I  knew  my 
uncle  so  well  in  after  years,  I  can  picture  Esmond 
Clarenden  as  he  stood  that  night  before  the  young 
priest  in  the  little  mud-walled  church  of  Agua 
Fria.  And  I  can  picture  the  tall,  threatening  man 

122 


'SANCTUARY' 

in  the  shadows  beside  him.  But  never  have  I 
held  an  image  of  him  showing  a  sign  of  fear. 

"Father  Josef,  I  am  willing  to  make  any  expla- 
nation to  you.  As  for  this  man  whom  you  call 
Ramero  here — up  in  the  States  he  bears  another 
name  and  I  finished  with  him  there  six  years  ago 
— I  have  no  time  nor  breath  to  waste  on  him. 
Are  these  your  demands?"  my  uncle  asked. 

"They  are,"  Father  Josef  replied. 

"Do  I  take  away  the  little  girl,  Eloise,  unmo- 
lested, if  you  are  satisfied?"  Esmond  Clarenden 
demanded,  first  making  sure  of  his  bargain,  like 
the  merchant  he  was. 

Ferdinand  Ramero  stiffened  insolently  at  ^hese 
words,  and  looked  threateningly  at  Fathef  Josef. 

"You  do,"  the  holy  man  replied,  something  of 
the  flashing  light  in  his  eyes  alone  revealing  what 
sort  of  a  soldier  the  State  had  lost  when  this  man 
took  on  churchly  orders. 

"I  am  no  traitor  to  my  flag,  since  my  full  com- 
merical  purpose  was  known  and  sanctioned  by  the 
military  authority  at  Fort  Leaven  worth  before  I 
left  there.  I  brought  no  aid  to  my  country's 
enemy  because  my  full  cargo  was  bargained  for  by 
your  merchant,  Felix  Narveo,  before  the  declara- 
tion of  war  was  made.  I  merely  acted  <RS  his  agent 
bringing  his  own  to  him.  I  have  come  here  as  a 
spy  only  in  this — that  I  shall  profit  m  strictly 
legitimate  business  by  the  knowledge  I  hold  of 
commercial  conditions  and  my  acquaintance  with 
your  citizens  when  this  war  for  territory  ends,  no 
matter  how  its  results  may  run.  I  deal  in  whole- 

123 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

some  trade,  not  in  human  hate.  I  offer  value  for 
value,  not  blood  for  blood." 

Up  to  this  time  a  smile  had  lighted  the  mer- 
chant's eyes.  But  now  his  voice  lowered,  and  the 
lines  about  his  mouth  hardened. 

"As  to  the  guardianship  of  children,  Father 
Josef,  I  am  a  bachelor  who  for  nearly  nine  years 
have  given  a  home,  education,  support,  and  affec- 
tion to  three  orphan  children,  until,  though  young 
in  years,  they  are  wise  and  capable.  So  zealous 
was  I  for  their  welfare,  that  when  word  came  to 
me — no  matter  how — that  a  company  of  Mexicans 
were  on  their  way  to  Independence,  Missouri,  os- 
tensibly to  seek  the  protection  of  the  United  States 
Government  and  to  settle  on  the  frontier  there,  but 
really  to  seize  these  children  in  my  absence,  and 
carry  them  into  the  heart  of  old  Mexico,  I  decided 
at  once  that  they  would  be  safer  with  me  in  New 
Mexico  than  without  me  in  Missouri. 

"In  the  night  I  passed  this  Mexican  gang  at 
Council  Grove,  waiting  to  seize  me  in  the  morning. 
At  Pawnee  Rock  a  storm  scattered  a  band  of 
Kiowa  Indians  to  whom  these  same  Mexicans 
had  given  a  little  Indian  slave  girl  as  a  reward  for 
attacking  our  train  if  the  Mexicans  should  fail  to 
get  us  themselves.  Through  every  peril  that 
threatens  that  long  trail  we  came  safely  because 
the  hand  of  the  Lord  preserved  us." 

Esmond  Clarenden  paused,  and  the  priest  bowed 
a  moment  in  prayer. 

"If  I  have  dared  fate  in  this  journey,"  the  mer- 
chant went  on,  "it  was  not  to  be  foolhardy,  nor 

124 


'SANCTUARY' 

for  mere  money  gains,  but  to  keep  my  own  with 
me,  and  to  rescue  the  daughter  of  Mary  St.  Vrain, 
of  Santa  Fe,  and  take  her  to  a  place  of  safety.  It 
was  her  mother's  last  pleading  call,  as  you, 
Father  Josef,  very  well  know,  since  you  yourself 
heard  her  last  words  and  closed  her  dead  eyes. 
Under  the  New  Mexican  law,  the  guardianship  of 
her  property  rests  with  others.  Mine  is  the  right 
to  protect  her  and,  by  the  God  of  heaven,  I  mean  to 
doit!" 

Esmond  Clarenden's  voice  was  deep  and  power- 
ful now,  filling  the  old  church  with  its  vehemence. 

Up  by  the  altar,  the  little  girl  sat  up  suddenly 
and  looked  about  her,  terrified  by  the  dim  light  and 
the  strange  faces  there. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Eloise." 

How  strangely  changed  was  this  gentle  tone 
from  the  vehement  voice  of  a  moment  ago. 

The  little  girl  sprang  up  and  stared  hard  at  the 
speaker.  But  no  child  ever  resisted  that  smile  by 
which  Esmond  Clarenden  held  Beverly  and  me  in 
loving  obedience  all  the  days  of  our  lives  with 
him. 

Shaking  with  fear  as  she  caught  sight  of  Ferdi- 
nand Ramero,  the  girl  reached  out  her  hands 
toward  the  merchant,  who  put  his  arm  protecting- 
ly  about  her.  The  big,  dark  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears;  the  head  with  its  sunny  ripples  of  tangled 
hair  leaned  against  him  for  a  moment.  Then  the 
fighting  spirit  came  back  to  her,  so  early  in  her 
young  life  had  the  need  for  defending  herself  been 
forced  upon  her. 

125 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

"Where  have  I  been?  Where  am  I  going?"  she 
demanded. 

"You  are  going  with  me  now,"  Uncle  Esmond 
said,  softly. 

"And  never  have  to  fight  Marcos  any  more? 
Oh,  good,  good,  good!  Let's  go  now!" 

She  frowned  darkly  at  Ferdinand  Ramero,  and, 
clutching  tightly  at  Esmond  Clarenden's  hands, 
she  began  pulling  him  toward  the  open  door. 

"Eloise,"  Father  Josef  said,  "you  are  about  to 
go  away  with  this  good  man  who  will  be  a  father 
to  you.  Be  a  good  child  as  your  mother  would 
want  you  to  be."  His  musical  voice  was  full  of 
pathos. 

Eloise  dropped  her  new  friend's  hand  and  sprang 
down  the  aisle. 

"I  will  be  good,  Father  Josef,"  she  said,  squeez- 
ing his  dark  hand  between  her  fair  little  palms. 
Then,  tossing  back  the  curls  from  her  face,  she 
reached  up  a  caressing  hand  to  his  cheek. 

Father  Josef  stooped  and  kissed  her  white  fore- 
head, and  turned  hastily  toward  the  altar. 

"Esmond  Clarenden!"  It  was  Ferdinand  Ra- 
mero who  spoke,  his  sharp,  bitter  voice  filling  the 
church. 

"By  order  of  this  priest  Eloise  St.  Vrain  is  yours 
to  protect  so  long  as  you  stay  within  these  walls. 
The  minute  you  leave  them  you  reckon  with  me." 

Father  Josef  whirled  about  quickly,  but  the  man 
made  a  scoffing  gesture. 

"I  brought  this  child  here  for  protection  this 
morming.  But  for  that  sickly  Yankee  and  two 

126 


'SANCTUARY' 

inquisitive  imps  of  boys  she  would  have  been  safe 
here.  I  acknowledge  sanctuary  privilege.  Use  it 
as  long  as  you^choose  in  the  church  of  Agua  Fria. 
Set  but  a  foot  outside  these  walls  and  I  say  again 
you  reckon  with'ttie." 

His  tall  form  thrust  itself  menacingly  before  the 
little  man  and  his  charge  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"Set  but  a  foot  outside  these  walls  and  you  will 
reckon  with  me." 

It  was  Jondo's  clear  voice,  and  the  big  plains- 
man, towering  up  suddenly  behind  Ferdinand 
Ramero,  filled  the  doorway. 

"You  meant  to  hide  in  the  old  Church  of  San 
Miguel  because  it  is  so  near  to  the  home  where  you 
have  kept  this  little  girl.  But  Gail  Clarenden 
blocked  your  game  and  found  your  house  and  this 
child  in  the  church  door  before  our  wagon-train 
had  reached  the  end  of  the  trail.  You  found  this 
church  your  nearest  refuge,  meaning  to  leave  it 
again  early  in  the  morning.  I  have  waited  here 
for  you  all  day,  protected  by  the  same  means  that 
brought  -word  to  Santa  Fe  this  morning.  Come 
out  now  if  you  wish.  You  dare  not  follow  me 
to  the  States,  but  I  dare  to  come  to  your  land. 
Can  you  meet  me  here?"  Jondo  was  handsome 
in  his  sunny  moods.  In  his  anger  he  was 
splendid. 

Ferdinand  Ramero  dropped  to  a  seat  beside 
Father  Josef. 

"I  have  told  you  I  cannot  face  that  man.  I 
will  stay  here  now,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  to 
the  priest.  "But  I  do  not  stay  here  always,  and 

127 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

I  can  send  where  I  do  not  follow,"  he  added,  de- 
fiantly. 

Esmond  Clarenden  was  already  on  his  horse  with 
his  little  charge,  snugly  wrapped,  in  his  arms. 

Father  Josef  at  the  portal  lifted  his  hand  in 
sign  of  blessing. 

"Peace  be  with  you.  Do  not  tarry  long,"  he 
said.  Then,  turning  to  Jondo,  he  gazed  into  the 
strong,  handsome  face.  "Go  in  peace.  He  will 
not  follow.  But  forget  not  to  love  even  your 
enemies." 

In  the  midnight  dimness  Jondo's  bright  smile 
glowed  with  all  its  courageous  sweetness. 

"I  finished  that  fight  long  ago,"  he  said.  "I 
come  only  to  help  others." 

Long  these  two,  priest  and  plainsman,  stood 
there  with  clasped  hands,  the  gray  night  mists  of 
the  Santa  Fe  Valley  round  about  them  and  all  the 
far  stars  of  the  mignight  sky  gleaming  above  them. 

Then  Jondo  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away  up 
the  trail  toward  Santa  Fe. 


VIII 

THE   WILDERNESS   CROSSROADS 

I  will  even  make  a  way  in  the  wilderness. 

— ISAIAH. 

BENT'S  FORT  stood  alone  in  the  wide  wastes 
of  the  upper  Arkansas  valley.  From  the  At- 
lantic to  the  Pacific  shores  there  was  in  America 
no  more  isolated  spot  holding  a  man's  home.  Out 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Arkansas,  in  a  grassy 
river  bottom,  with  rolling  treeless  plains  rippling 
away  on  every  hand,  it  reared  its  high  yellow  walls 
in  solitary  defiance,  mute  token  of  the  white  man's 
conquering  hand  in  a  savage  wilderness.  It  was 
a  great  rectangle  built  of  adobe  brick  with  walls 
six  feet  through  at  the  base,  sloping  to  only  a 
third  of  that  width  at  the  top,  'eighteen  feet  from 
the  ground.  Round  bastions,  thirty  feet  high,  at 
two  diagonal  corners,  gave  outlook  and  defense. 
Immense  wooden  doors  guarded  a  wide  gateway 
looking  eastward  down  the  Arkansas  River.  The 
interior  arrangement  was  after  the  Mexican  cus- 
,tom  of  building,  with  rooms  along  the  outer  walls 
all  opening  into  a  big  patio,  or  open  court.  A  cross- 
wall  separated  this  court  from  the  large  corral  in- 

129 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

side  the  outer  walls  at  the  rear.  A  portal,  or 
porch,  roofed  with  thatch  on  cedar  poles,  ran 
around  the  entire  inner  rectangle,  sheltering  the 
rooms  somewhat  from  the  glare  of  the  white- 
washed court.  A  little  world  in  itself  was  this 
Bent's  Fort,  a  self-dependent  community  in  the 
solitary  places.  The  presiding  genius  of  this 
community  was  William  Bent,  whose  name  is 
graven  hard  and  deep  in  the  annals  of  the  eastern 
slopes  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  country  in  the 
earlier  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Hither  in  the  middle  '40*5  the  wild  trails  of  the 
West  converged:  northward,  from  the  trading- 
posts  of  Bent  and  St.  Vrain  on  the  Platte;  south, 
over  the  Raton  Pass  from  Taos  and  Santa  Fe; 
westward,  from  the  fur-bearing  plateaus  of  the 
Rockies,  where  trappers  and  traders  brought  their 
precious  piles  of  pelts  down  the  Arkansas;  and 
eastward,  half  a  thousand  miles  from  the  Missouri 
River  frontier — the  pathways  of  a  restless,  roving 
people  crossed  each  other  here.  And  it  was  toward 
this  wrilderness  crossroads  that  Esmond  Clarenden 
directed  his  course  in  that  summertime  of  my 
boyhood  years. 

The  heat  of  a  July  sun  beat  pitilessly  down  on 
the  scorching  plains.  The  weary  trail  stretched 
endlessly  on  toward  a  somewhere  in  the  yellow 
distance  that  meant  shelter  and  safety.  Spiral 
gusts  of  air  gathering  out  of  the  low  hills  to  the 
southeast  picked  up  great  cones  of  dust  and  whirled 
them  zigzagging  across  the  brown  barren  face  of 
the  land.  Every  draw  was  bone  dry;  even  the 

130 


CROSSROADS 

greener  growths  along  their  sheltered  sides,  where 
the  last  moisture  hides  itself,  wore  a  sickly  sallow 
hue. 

Under  the  burden  of  this  sun-glare,  and  through 
these  stifling  dust-cones,  our  little  company  strug- 
gled sturdily  forward. 

We  had  left  Santa  Fe  as  suddenly  and  daringly 
as  we  had  entered  it,  the  very  impossibility  of 
risking  such  a  journey  again  being  our  greatest 
safeguard.  Esmond  Clarenden  was  doing  the 
thing  that  couldn't  be  done,  and  doing  it  quickly. 

In  the  gray  dawn  after  that  midnight  ride  to  Agua 
Fria  a  little  Indian  girl  had  slipped  like  a  brown 
shadow  across  the  Plaza.  Stopping  at  the  door  of 
the  Exchange  Hotel,  she  leaned  against  the  low 
slab  of  petrified  wood  that  for  many  a  year  served 
as  a  loafer's  roost  before  the  hotel  doorway.  In- 
side the  building  Jondo  caught  the  clear  twitter  of 
a  bird's  song  at  daybreak,  twice  repeated.  A  pause, 
and  then  it  came  again ,  fainter  this  time,  as  if  the  bird 
were  fluttering  away  through  the  Plaza  treetops. 

In  that  pause,  the  gate  in  the  wall  had  opened 
softly,  and  Aunty  Boone's  sharp  eyes  peered 
through  the  crack.  The  girl  caught  one  glimpse 
of  the  black  face,  then,  dropping  a  tiny  leather  bag 
beside  the  stone,  she  sped  away. 

A  tall  young  Indian  boy,  prone  on  the  ground 
behind  a  pile  of  refuse  in  the  shadowy  Plaza, 
lifted  his  head  in  time  to  see  the  girl  glide  along  the 
portal  of  the  Palace  of  the  Governors  and  dis- 
appear at  the  corner  of  the  structure.  Then  he 
rose  and  followed  her  with  silent  moccasined  feet. 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

And  Jondo,  who  had  hurried  to  the  hotel  door,  saw 
only  the  lithe  form  of  an  Indian  boy  across  the 
Plaza.  Then  his  eye  fell  on  the  slender  bag  beside 
the  stone  slab.  It  held  a  tiny  scrap  of  paper, 
bearing  a  message: 

Take  long  trail  QUICK.  Mexicans  follow  far.  Trust 
bearer  anywhere.  JOSEF. 

An  hour  later  we  were  on  our  way  toward  the 
open  prairies  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  afloat 
above  Fort  Leavenworth. 

In  the  wagon  beside  Mat  Nivers  wa^  the  little 
girl  whose  face  had  been  clear  in  the  mystic  vision 
of  my  day-dreams  on  the  April  morning  when  I  had 
gone  out  to  watch  for  the  big  fish  on  the  sand-bars; 
the  morning  when  I  had  felt  the  first  heart-throb 
of  desire  for  the  trail  and  the  open  plains  whereon 
my  life-story  would  later  be  written. 

We  carried  no  merchandise  now.  Everything 
bent  toward  speed  and  safety.  Our  ponies  and 
mules  were  all  fresh  ones — secured  for  this  journey 
two  hours  after  we  had  come  into  Santa  Fe — save 
for  the  big  sturdy  dun  creature  that  Uncle  Esmond, 
out  of  pure  sentiment,  allowed  to  trail  along  behind 
the  wagons  toward  his  native  heath  in  the  Missouri 
bottoms. 

We  had  crossed  the  Gloriettas  and  climbed  over 
the  Raton  Pass  rapidly,  and  now  we  were  nearing 
the  upper  Arkansas,  where  the  old  trail  turns  east 
for  its  long  stretch  across  the  prairies. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see  there  was  no  living 
thing  save  our  own  company  in  all  the  desolate 

132 


CROSSROADS 

plain  aquiver  with  heat  and  ashy  dry.  The  line 
of  low  yellow  bluffs  to  the  southeast  hardly  cast 
a  shadow  save  for  a  darker  dun  tint  here  and 
there. 

At  midday  we  drooped  to  a  brief  rest  beside  the 
sun-baked  trail. 

"You  all  jus'  one  color,"  Aunty  Boone  declared. 
"You  all  like  the  dus'  you  made  of  'cep'  Little 
Lees  an'  me.  She's  white  and  I'm  black.  Nothin' 
else  makes  a  pin  streak  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

Aunty  Boone  flourished  on  deserts  and  her  black 
face  glistened  in  the  sunlight.  Deep  in  the  shadow 
of  the  wagon  cover  the  face  of  Eloise  St.  Vrain — . 
"Little  Lees,"  Aunty  Boone  had  named  her — 
bloomed  pink  as  a  wild  rose  in  its  frame  of  soft 
hair.  She  had  become  Aunty  Boone's  meat  and 
drink  from  the  moment  the  strange  African  woman 
first  saw  her.  This  regard,  never  expressed  in 
caress  nor  word  of  tenderness,  showed  itself  in 
warding  from  the  little  girl  every  wind  of  heaven 
that  might  visit  her  too  roughly.  Not  that  Eloise 
gave  up  easily.  Her  fighting  spirit  made  her  rebel 
against  weariness  and  the  hardships  of  trail  life 
new  to  her.  She  fitted  into  our  ways  marvelously 
well,  demanding  equal  rights,  but  no  favors.  By 
some  gentle  appeal,  hardly  put  into  words,  we 
knew  that  Uncle  Esmond  did  not  want  us  to  talk 
to  her  about  herself.  And  Beverly  and  Mat  and  I, 
however  much  we  might  speculate  among  our- 
selves, never  thought  of  resisting  his  wishes. 

Eloise  was  gracious  with  Mat,  but  evidently  the 
boy  Marcos  had  made  her  wary  of  all  boys.  She 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

paid  no  attention  to  Beverly  and  me  at  first.  All 
her  pretty  smiles  and  laughing  words  were  for 
Uncle  Esmond  and  Jondo.  And  she  was  lovely. 
Never  in  all  these  long  and  varied  years  have  I 
seen  another  child  with  such  a  richness  of  color- 
ing, nor  such  a  mass  of  golden  hair  rippling 
around  her  forehead  and  falling  in  big,  soft  curls 
about  her  neck.  Her  dark  eyes  with  their  long 
black  lashes  gave  to  her  face  its  picturesque 
beauty,  and  her  plump,  dimpled  arms  and  sturdy 
little  form  bespoke  the  wholesome  promise  of 
future  years. 

But  the  life  of  the  trail  was  not  meant  for  such  as 
she,  and  I  know  now  that  the  assurance  of  having 
saved  her  from  some  greater  misfortune  alone 
comforted  Uncle  Esmond  and  Jondo  in  this  jour- 
ney. For  Aunty  Boone  was  right  when  she  de- 
clared, "They  tote  together  always." 

As  we  grouped  together  under  that  shelterless 
glare,  getting  what  comfort  we  could  out  of  the 
brief  rest,  Jondo  sprang  up  suddenly,  his  eyes 
aglow  with  excitement. 

"What's  the  matter?  Because  if  it  isn't,  this 
is  one  hot  day  to  pretend  Eke  it  is,"  Rex  Krane 
asserted. 

He  was  lying  on  the  hot  earth  beside  the  trail, 
his  hat  pulled  over  his  face.  Beverly  and  Bill 
Banney  were  staring  dejectedly  across  the  land- 
scape, seeing  nothing.  I  sat  looking  off  toward 
the  east,  wondering  what  lay  behind  those  dun 
bluffs  in  the  distance. 

"Something  is  wrong  back  yonder,"  Jondo  de- 


CROSSROADS 

clared,  making  a  half -circle  with  his  hand  toward 
the  trail  behind  us. 

My  heart  seemed  to  stop  mid-beat  with  a  kind 
of  fear  I  had  never  known  before.  Aunty  Boone 
had  always  been  her  own  defender.  Mat  Nivers 
had  cared  for  me  so  much  that  I  never  doubted  her 
bigger  power.  It  was  for  Eloise,  Aunty  Boone's 
"Little  Lees,"  that  my  fear  leaped  up. 

I  can  close  my  eyes  to-day  and  see  again  the 
desolate  land  banded  by  the  broad  white  trail. 
I  can  see  the  dusty  wagons  and  our  tired  mules 
with  drooping  heads.  I  can  see  the  earnest, 
anxious  faces  of  Esmond  Clarenden  and  Jondo; 
Beverly  and  Bill  Banney  hardly  grasping  Jondo's 
meaning;  Rex  Krane,  half  asleep  on  the  edge  of 
the  trail.  I  can  see  Mat  Nivers,  brown  and  strong, 
and  Aunty  Boone  oozing  sweat  at  every  pore. 
But  these  are  only  the  setting  for  that  little  girl 
on  the  wragon-seat  with  white  face  and  big  dark 
eyes,  under  the  curl-shadowed  forehead. 

Jondo  stared  hard  toward  the  hills  in  the  south- 
east. Then  he  turned  to  my  uncle  with  grim  face 
and  burning  eyes.  His  was  a  wonderful  voice, 
clear,  strong  and  penetrating.  But  in  danger  he 
always  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"I've  watched  those  dust -whirls  for  an  hour. 
The  wind  isn't  making  all  of  them.  Somebody  is 
stirring  them  up  for  cover.  Every  whirl  has  an 
Indian  in  it.  It's  all  of  ten  miles  to  Bent's.  We 
must  fight  them  off  and  let  the  others  run  for  it, 
before  they  cut  us  off  in  front.  Look  at  that !" 

The  exclamation  burst  from  the  plainsman's  lips. 
10  i3S 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

That  was  my  last  straight  looking.  The  rest 
is  ever  a  kaleidoscope  of  action  thrilled  through 
with  terror.  What  I  saw  was  a  swiftly  moving 
black  splotch  coming  out  of  the  hills,  with  huge 
dust-heaps  flying  here  and  there  before  it.  Then  a 
yellow  cloud  spiral  blinded  our  sight  as  a  gust  of 
hot  wind  swept  round  us.  I  remember  Jondo's 
stern  face  and  blazing  eyes  and  his  words : 

' '  Mexicans  behind  the  Indians ! ' ' 

And  Uncle  Esmond's  voice: 

"Narveo  said  they  would  get  us,  but  I  hoped 
we  had  outrun  them." 

The  far  plains  seemed  spotted  with  Indians 
racing  toward  us,  and  coming  at  an  angle  from 
the  southeast  a  dozen  Mexicans  swept  in  to  cut 
us  off  from  the  trail  in  front. 

I  remember  a  quick  snatching  of  precious  things 
in  boxes  placed  for  such  a  moment  as  this,  a  quick 
snapping  of  halter  ropes  around  the  ponies'  necks, 
a  gleaming  of  gun-barrels  in  the  hot  sunlight;  a 
solid  cloud  of  dust  rolling  up  behind  us,  bigger  and 
nearer  every  second;  and  the  urgent  voice  of 
Jon  do :  ' '  Ride  for  your  lives ! ' ' 

And  the  race  began.  On  the  trail  somewhere 
before  us  was  Bent's  Fort.  We  could  only  hope 
to  reach  it  soon.  We  did  not  even  look  behind  as 
we  tore  down  that  dusty  wilderness  way. 

At  the  first  motion  Aunty  Boone  had  seized 
Eloise  St.  Vrain  with  one  hand  and  the  big  dun 
mule's  neck-strap  with  the  other. 

"Go  to  the  devil,  you  tigers  and  -cannibals!" 
She  roared  with  the  growl  of  a  desert  lioness, 

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CROSSROADS 

shaking  her  big  black  fist  at  the  band  of  Mexicans 
pouring  out  of  the  hills. 

And  dun  mule  and  black  woman  and  white- 
faced,  terror-stricken  child  became  only  a  dust- 
cloud  far  in  front  of  us.  Mat  and  Beverly  and  I 
leaped  to  the  ponies  and  followed  the  lead  of  the 
African  woman.  Nearest  to  us  was  Rex  Krane, 
always  a  shield  for  the  younger  and  less  able. 
And  behind  him,  as  defense  for  the  rear  and  pro- 
tection for  the  van,  came  Esmond  Clarenden  and 
Bill  Banney,  with  Jondo  nearest  the  enemy, 
where  danger  was  greatest. 

I  tell  it  calmly,  but  I  lived  it  in  a  blind  whirl. 
The  swift  hoof -beat,  the  wild  Indian  yells,  the 
whirl  of  arrows  and  whiz  of  bullets,  the  onrush 
to  outrun  the  Mexicans  who  were  trying  to  cut  us 
off  from  the  trail  in  front.  Lived  it !  I  lived  ages 
in  it.  And  then  an  arrow  cut  my  pony's  flank, 
making  him  lurch  from  the  trail,  a  false  step,  the 
pony  staggering,  falling.  A  sharp  pain  in  my 
shoulder,  the  smell  of  fire,  a  shriek  from  demon 
throats,  the  glaring  sunlight  on  the  rocking  plain, 
searing  my  eyes  in  a  mad  whirlpool  of  blinding 
light,  the  fading  sounds — and  then — all  was  black 
and  still. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  again  I  was  lying  on  a 
cot.  Bare  adobe  walls  were  around  me,  and  a 
high  plastered  roof  resting  on  cedar  poles  sheltered 
that  awful  glare  from  my  eyes.  Through  the  open 
door  I  could  see  the  rain  falling  on  the  bare  ground 
s>f  the  court,  filling  the  shallow  places  with  puddles. 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

I  tried  to  lift  myself  to  see  more  as  shrieks  of 
childish  laughter  caught  my  ear,  but  there  was  a 
sickish  heat  in  my  dry  skin,  an  evil  taste  in  my 
throat,  and  a  sharp  pain  in  my  left  shoulder;  and 
I  fell  back  again. 

Another  shriek,  and  Eloise  St.  Vrain  came  before 
my  doorway,  pattering  with  bare  white  feet  out 
into  the  center  of  the  patio  puddles  and  laughing 
at  the  dashing  summer  shower.  Her  damp  hair, 
twisted  into  a  knot  on  top  of  her  head,  was  curling 
tightly  about  her  temples  and  neck,  her  eyes  were 
shining ;  her  wet  clothes  slapping  at  her  bare  white 
knees — a  picture  of  the  delicious  happiness  of 
childhood.  A  little  child  of  three  or  four  years 
was  toddling  after  her.  He  was  brown  as  a  berry, 
and  at  first  I  thought  he  was  a  little  Indian.  I 
could  hear  Mat  and  Beverly  splashing  about  safe 
and  joyous  somewhere,  and  I  forgot  my  fever  and 
pain  and  the  dread  of  that  awful  glare  coming 
again  to  sear  my  burning  eyeballs  as  I  watched  and 
listened.  A  louder  shriek  as  the  little  child  ran 
behind  Eloise  and  gave  her  a  vigorous  shove  for 
one  so  small. 

"Oh,  Charlie  Bent,  see  what  you've  done,"  Mat 
cried;  and  then  Beverly  was  picking  up  "Little 
Lees,"  sprawling,  all  mud-smeared  and  happy,  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  court. 

The  child  stood  looking  at  her  with  shining 
black  eyes  full  of  a  wicked  mischief,  but  he  said  not 
a  word. 

Just  then  a  dull  grunt  caught  my  ear,  and  I  half- 
turned  to  see  a  cot  beyond  mine.  An  Indian  boy 

138 


CROSSROADS 

lay  on  it,  looking  straight  at  me.  I  stared  back 
at  him  and  neither  of  us  spoke.  His  head  was 
bandaged  and  his  cheek  was  swollen,  but  with  my 
memory  for  faces,  even  Indian  faces,  I  knew  him 
at  once  for  the  boy  who  had  followed  us  into  Agua 
Fria  and  out  of  it  again. 

Just  then  the  frolickers  came  to  the  door  and 
peered  in  at  me. 

"Are  you  awake?"  Eloise  asked. 

Then  seeing  my  face,  she  came  romping  in,  fol- 
lowed by  Mat  and  Beverly  and  little  Charlie  Bent, 
all  wet  and  hilarious.  They  gave  no  heed  to  the 
Indian  boy,  who  pretended  to  be  asleep.  Once, 
however,  I  caught  him  watching  Beverly,  and  his 
eyes  were  like  dagger  points. 

"We  are  having  the  best  times.  You  must  get 
well  right  away,  because  we  are  going  to  stay." 
They  all  began  to  clatter,  noisily. 

Rex  Krane  appeared  at  the  door  just  then  and 
they  stopped  suddenly. 

"Clear  out  of  here,  you  magpies,"  he  com- 
manded, and  they  scuttled  away  into  the  warm 
rain  and  the  puddles  again. 

"Do  you  want  anything,  Gail?"  Rex  asked, 
bending  over  me. 

I  drew  his  head  down  with  my  right  arm. 

"I  wrant  that  Indian  out  of  here,"  I  whispered. 

"Out  he  goes,"  Rex  returned,  promptly,  and 
almost  before  I  knew  it  the  boy  was  taken  away. 
When  we  were  alone  the  tall  young  man  sat  down 
beside  me. 

"You  want  to  ask  me  a  million  questions.     I'll 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

answer  'em  to  save  you  the  trouble,"  he  began,  in 
his  comfortable  way. 

"You  are  wounded  in  your  shoulder.  Slight, 
bullet,  that's  Mexican;  deep,  arrow,  that's  Indian. 
But  you  are  here  and  pretty  much  alive  and  you 
will  be  well  soon." 

"And  Uncle  Esmond  ?  Jondo  ?  Bill ?"  I  began, 
lifting  myself  up  on  my  well  arm. 

"Keep  quiet.  I'll  answer  faster.  Everybody 
all  right.  Clarenden  and  Jondo  leave  for  Inde- 
pendence the  minute  you  are  better,  and  a  military 
escort  permits. 

I  dropped  down  again. 

"The  U.  S.  Army,  en  route  for  perdition,  via 
Santa  Fe,  is  camping  in  the  big  timbers  down- 
stream now.  Jondo  and  Esmond  Clarenden  will 
leave  you  boys  and  girls  here  till  it's  safe  to  take 
you  out  again.  And  I  and  Daniel  Boone,  vestal 
god  and  goddess  of  these  hearth-fires,  will  keep  you 
from  harm  till  that  time.  Bill's  joining  the  army 
for  sure  now,  and  our  happy  family  life  is  ended  as 
far  as  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  is  concerned.  I'm  a  well 
man  now,  but  not  quite  army- well  yet,  they  tell  me." 

' '  Tell  me  about  this. "    I  pointed  to  my  shoulder. 

"All  in  good  time.  It  was  a  nasty  mess  of  fish. 
A  dozen  Mexicans  and  as  many  Indians  had  fol- 
lowed us  all  the  way  from  the  sunny  side  of  the 
Gloriettas.  You  and  Bev  and  Mat  had  got  by  the 
Mexics.  Daniel  Boone  and  'Little  Lees'  were 
climbing  the  North  Pole  by  that  time.  The  rest 
of  us  were  giving  battle  straight  from  the  shoulder; 
and  someway,  I  don't  know  how,  just  as  we  had 

140 


CROSSROADS 

the  gang  beat  back  behind  us — you  had  a  sniff  of  a 
bullet  just  then — an  Indian  slipped  ahead  in  the 
dust.  I  was  tendin'  to  mite  of  an  arrow  wound  in 
my  right  calf,  and  I  just  caught  him  in  time,  aim- 
in'  at  Bev;  but  he  missed  him  for  you.  I  got  him, 
though,  and  clubbed  his  scalp  a  bit  loose." 

Rex  paused  and  stared  at  his  right  leg. 

"How  did  that  boy  get  here,  Rex?  Is  he  a 
friendly  Indian?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  Jondo  brought  him  in  out  of  the  wet. 
Says  the  child  was  made  to  come  along,  and  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  away  from  the  gang  he  had 
to  run  with  up  here;  he  came  right  into  camp  to 
help  us  against  them.  Fine  young  fellow!  Jondo 
has  it  from  them  in  authority  that  we  can  trust  him 
lyin'  or  tellin'  the  truth.  He's  all  right." 

"How  did  he  get  hurt?"  I  inquired,  still  remem- 
bering in  my  own  mind  the  day  at  Agua  Fria. 

"He'd  got  into  our  camp  and  was  fightin'  on  our 
side  when  it  happened,"  Rex  replied. 

"Some  of  them  shot  at  him,  then?"  I  insisted. 

"No,  I  beat  him  up  with  the  butt  of  my  gun  for 
shootin'  you,"  Rex  said,  lazily. 

"  At  me !     Why  don't  you  tell  Jondo  ?" 

"I  tried  to,"  Rex  answered,  "but  I  can't  make 
him  see  it  that  way.  He's  got  faith  in  that  red- 
skin and  he's  going  to  see  that  he  gets  back  to 
New  Mexico  safely — after  while." 

"Rex,  that's  the  same  boy  that  was  down  in 
Agua  Fria,  the  one  Bev  laughed  at.  He's  no 
good  Indian,"  I  declared. 

"You  are  too  wise,  Gail  Clarenden,"  Rex 
141 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

drawled,  carelessly.  "A  boy  of  your  brains  had 
ought  to  be  born  in  Boston.  Jondo  and  I  can't 
agree  about  him.  His  name,  he  says,  is  Santan. 
There's  one  'n'  too  many.  If  you  knock  off  the 
last  one  it  makes  him  Santa — 'holy';  but  if  you 
knock  out  the  middle  it's  Satan.  We  don't  knock 
out  the  same  'n',  Jondo  and  me." 

Just  then  the  little  child  came  tumbling  noisily 
into  the  room. 

"Look  here,  youngun.  You  can't  be  makin'  a 
racket  here,"  Rex  said. 

The  boy  stared  at  him,  impudently. 

"I  will,  too,"  he  declared,  sullenly,  kicking  at 
my  cot  with  all  his  might. 

Rex  made  no  reply  but,  seizing  the  child  around 
the  waist,  he  carried  him  kicking  and  screaming 
outside. 

"You  stay  out  or  I'll  spank  you!"  Rex  said, 
dropping  him  to  the  ground. 

The  boy  looked  up  with  blazing  eyes,  but  said 
nothing. 

"That's  little  Charlie  Bent.  His  daddy  runs 
this  splendid  fort.  His  mother  is  a  Cheyenne 
squaw,  and  he's  a  grim  dinger  of  a  half-breed. 
Some  day  he'll  be  a  terror  on  these  plains.  It's 
in  him,  I  know.  But  that  won't  interfere  with  us 
any.  And  you  children  are  a  lot  safer  here  than 
out  on  the  trail.  Great  God!  I  wonder  we  ever 
got  you  here!"  Rex's  face  was  very  grave. 
"Now  go  to  sleep  and  wake  up  well.  No  more 
thinkin'  like  a  man.  You  can  be  a  child  again  for 
a  while." 

142 


CROSSROADS 

Those  were  happy  days  that  followed.  Safe 
behind  the  strong  walls  of  old  Fort  Bent,  we 
children  had  not  a  care;  and  with  the  stress  and 
strain  of  the  trail  life  lifted  from  our  young  minds, 
we  rebounded  into  happy  childhood  living.  Every 
day  offered  a  new  drama  to  our  wonder-loving 
eyes.  We  watched  the  big  hide-press  for  making 
buffalo  robes  and  furs  into  snug  bales.  We 
climbed  to  the  cupola  of  the  headquarters  depart- 
ment and  saw  the  soldiers  marching  by  on  their 
way  to  New  Mexico.  We  saw  the  Ute  and  the 
Red  River  Comanche  come  filing  in  on  their  sum- 
mer expeditions  from  the  mountains.  We  saw  the 
trade  lines  from  the  far  north  bearing  down  to  this 
wilderness  crossroads  with  their  early  fall  stock  for 
barter. 

Our  playground  was  the  court  off  which  all  the 
rooms  opened.  And  however  wild  and  boisterous 
the  scenes  inside  those  walls  in  that  summer  of 
1846,  in  four  young  lives  no  touch  of  evil  took  root. 
Stronger  than  the  six-feet  width  of  wall,  higher 
than  the  eighteen  feet  of  adobe  brick  guarding  us 
round  about,  was  the  stern  strength  of  the  young 
Boston  man  interned  in  the  fort  to  protect  us 
from  within,  as  the  strength  of  that  structure 
defended  us  from  without. 

And  yet  he  might  have  failed  sometimes,  had 
it  not  been  for  Aunty  Boone.  Nobody  trifled 
with  her. 

"You  let  them  children  be.  An  give  'em  the 
run  of  this  shack,"  she  commanded  of  the  lesser 
powers  whose  business  was  to  domineer  over  the 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

daily  life  there.  "The  man  that  makes  trouble 
wide  as  a  needle  is  across  is  goin'  to  meet  me  an' 
the  Judgment  Day  the  same  minute." 

"When  Daniel  gets  on  her  crack-o'-doom  voice, 
the  mountains  goin'  to  skip  like  rams  and  the  little 
hills  like  lambs,  an'  the  Army  of  the  West  won't  be 
necessary  to  protect  the  frontier,"  Rex  declared. 
But  he  knew  her  worth  to  his  cause,  and  he  wel- 
comed it. 

And  so  with  her  brute  force  and  his  moral 
strength  we  were  unconsciously  intrenched  in  a 
safety  zone  in  this  far-isolated  place. 

With  neither  Uncle  Esmond  nor  Jondo  near  us 
for  the  first  time  in  our  remembrance,  we  gained  a 
strength  in  self-dependence  that  we  needed.  For 
with  the  best  of  guardianship,  there  are  many  ways 
in  which  a  child's  day  may  be  harried  unless  the 
child  asserts  himself.  We  had  the  years  of  chil- 
dren but  the  sturdy  defiance  of  youth.  So  we 
were  happy  within  our  own  little  group,  and  we 
paid  little  heed  to  the  things  that  nobody  else 
could  forestall  for  us. 

Outside  of  our  family,  little  Charlie  Bent,  the 
half-breed  child  of  the  proprietor  of  the  fort, 
was  a  daily  plague.  He  entered  into  all  of  our 
sports  with  a  quickness  and  perseverance  and  wil- 
fulness  that  was  thoroughly  American.  He  took 
defeat  of  his  wishes,  and  the  equal  measure  of 
justice  and  punishment,  with  the  silent  doggedness 
of  an  Indian;  and  on  the  edge  of  babyhood  he 
showed  a  spirit  of  revenge  and  malice  that  we,  in 
our  rollicking,  affectionate  lives,  with  all  our 

144 


CROSSROADS 

teasing  and  sense  of  humor,  could  not  understand ; 
so  we  laughed  at  his  anger  and  ignored  his  imperi- 
ous demands. 

Behind  him  always  was  his  Cheyenne  mother, 
jealously  defending  him  in  everything,  and  in 
manifold  ways  making  life  a  burden — if  we  would 
submit  to  the  making,  which  we  seldom  did. 

And  lastly  Santan,  the  young  boy  who  had  de- 
serted his  Mexican  masters  for  Jondo's  command, 
contrived,  with  an  Indian's  shrewdness,  never  to 
let  us  out  of  his  sight.  But  he  gave  us  no  oppor- 
tunity to  approach  him.  He  lived  in  his  own 
world,  which  was  a  savage  one,  but  he  managed 
that  it  should  overlap  our  world  and  silently  grasp 
all  that  was  in  it.  Beverly  had  persistently  tried 
to  be  friendly  for  a  time,  for  that  was  Beverly's 
way.  Failing  to  do  it,  he  had  nick-named  the  boy 
"Satan"  for  all  time. 

"We  found  Little  Blue  Flower  a  sweet  little 
muggins,"  Beverly  told  the  Indian  early  in  our 
stay  at  the  fort.  "We  like  good  Indians  like  her. 
She's  one  clipper." 

Santan  had  merely  looked  him  through  as 
though  he  were  air,  and  made  no  reply,  nor  did  he 
ever  by  a  single  word  recognize  Beverly  from  that 
moment. 

The  evening  before  we  left  Fort  Bent  we  children 
sat  together  in  a  corner  of  the  court.  The  day 
had  been  very  hot  for  the  season  and  the  night  was 
warm  and  balmy,  with  the  moonlight  flooding  the 
open  space,  edging  the  shadows  of  the  inner  portal 
with  silver.  There  was  much  noise  and  boisterous 

US 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

laughter  in  the  billiard-room  where  the  heads  of 
affairs  played  together.  Rex  Krane  had  gone  to 
bed  early.  Out  by  the  rear  gate  leading  to  the 
fort  corral,  Aunty  Boone  was  crooning  a  weird 
African  melody.  Crouching  in  the  deep  shadows 
beside  the  kitchen  entrance,  the  Indian  boy, 
Santan,  listened  to  all  that  was  said. 

To-night  we  had  talked  of  to-morrow's  journey, 
and  the  strength  of  the  military  guard  who  should 
keep  us  safe  along  the  way.  Then,  as  children 
will,  we  began  to  speculate  on  what  should  follow 
for  us. 

"When  I  get  older  I'm  going  to  be  a  freighter 
like  Jondo,  Bill,  and  me.  We'll  kill  every  Indian 
who  dares  to  yell  along  the  trail.  I'm  going  back 
to  Santa  Fe  and  kill  that  boy  that  stared  at  me 
like  he  was  crazy  one  day  at  Agua  Fria." 

In  the  shadows  of  the  porchway,  I  saw  Santan 
creeping  nearer  to  us  as  Beverly  ran  on  flippantly : 

"I  guess  I'll  marry  a  squaw,  Little  Blue  Flower, 
maybe,  like  the  Bents  do,  and  live  happily  ever 
after." 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  big  fine  house  and  live 
there  all  the  time,"  Mat  Nivers  declared.  Some- 
thing in  the  earnest  tone  told  us  what  this  long 
journey  had  meant  to  the  brave-hearted  girl. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  Gail  when  I  grow  up," 
Eloise  said,  meditatively.  "He  won't  ever  let 
Marcos  pull  my  hair."  She  shook  back  the  curly 
tresses,  gold-gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  and 
squeezed  my  hand  as  she  sat  beside  me. 

"What  will  you  be,  Gail?"  Mat  asked. 
146 


CROSSROADS 

"  I'll  go  and  save  Bev's  scalp  when  he's  gunning 
too  far  from  home,"  I  declared. 

"Oh,  he'll  be  'Little  Lees's'  husband,  and  pull 
that  Marcos  cuss's  nose  if  he  tries  to  pull  anybody's 
curls.  Whoo-ee!  as  Aunty  Boone  would  say," 
Beverly  broke  in. 

I  kept  a  loving  grip  on  the  little  hand  that  had 
found  mine,  as  I  would  have  gripped  Beverly's 
hand  sometimes  in  moments  when  we  talked  to- 
gether as  boys  do,  in  the  confidences  they  never 
give  to  anybody  else. 

A  gray  shadow  dropped  on  the  moon,  and  a 
chill  night  wind  crept  down  inside  the  walls.  A 
sudden  fear  fell  on  us.  The  noises  inside  the  bill- 
iard room  seemed  far  away,  and  all  the  doors  ex- 
cept ours  were  closed.  Santan  had  crept  between 
us  and  the  two  open  doorways  leading  to  our 
rooms.  What  if  he  should  slip  inside.  A  snake 
would  have  seemed  better  to  me. 

A  silence  had  fallen  on  us,  and  Eloise  still  clung 
to  my  hand.  I  held  it  tightly  to  assure  her  I 
wasn't  afraid,  but  I  could  not  speak  nor  move. 
Aunty  Boone's  crooning  voice-Was  still,  and  every- 
thing had  grown  weird  and  ghostly.  The  faint 
wailing  cry  of  some  wild  thing  of  the  night  plains 
outside  crept  to  our  ears,  making  us  shiver. 

"When  the  stars  go  to  sleep  an'  the  moon  pulls 
up  the  gray  covers,  it's  time  to  shut  your  eyes  an* 
forget."  Aunty  Boone's  soft  voice  broke  the  spell 
comfortingly  for  us.  "Any  crawlin'  thing  that 
gits  in  my  way  now,  goin'  to  be  stepped  on." 

At  the  low  hissing  sound  of  the  last  sentence 
147 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

there  was  a  swift  scrambling  along  the  shadows  of 
the  porch,  and  a  door  near  the  kitchen  snapped 
shut.  The  big  shining  face  of  the  African  woman 
glistened  above  us  and  the  court  was  flooded  again 
with  the  moon's  silvery  radiance.  As  we  all 
sprang  up  to  rush  for  our  rooms,  "Little  Lees" 
pulled  me  toward  her  and  gently  kissed  my  cheek. 

"You  never  would  let  Marcos  in  if  he  came  to 
Fort  Leavenworth,  would  you?"  she  whispered. 

"I'd  break  his  head  clear  off  first,"  I  whispered 
back,  and  then  we  scampered  away. 

That  night  I  dreamed  again  of  the  level  plains 
and  Uncle  Esmond  and  misty  mountain  peaks, 
but  the  dark  eyes  were  not  there,  though  I  watched 
long  for  them. 

The  next  day  we  left  Fort  Bent,  and  when  I 
passed  that  way  again  it  was  a  great  mass  of  yellow 
mounds,  with  a  piece  of  broken  wall  standing 
desolately  here  and  there,  a  wreck  of  the  past 
in  a  solitary  land. 


II 

BUILDING   THE    TRAIL 


IX 

IN  THE  MOON  OF  THE  PEACH  BLOSSOM 

Love  took  me  softly  by  the  hand, 
Love  led  me  all  the  country  o'er, 

And  showed  me  beauty  in  the  land, 
That  I  had  never  seen  before. 

— ANONYMOUS. 

might  not  be  able  to  find  the  house  to- 
1  day,  nor  the  high  bluff  whereon  it  stood.  So 
many  changes  have  been  wrought  in  half  a  century 
that  what  was  green  headland  and  wooded  valley 
in  the  far  '50*3  may  be  but  a  deep  cut  or  a  big  fill 
for  a  new  roadway  or  factory  site  to-day.  So 
diligently  has  Kansas  City  fulfilled  the  scriptural 
prophecy  that  "every  valley  shall  be  exalted,  and 
every  mountain  and  hill  shall  be  made  low." 

Where  the  great  stream  bends  to  the  east,  the 
rugged  heights  about  its  elbow,  Aunty  Boone,  in 
those  days,  was  wont  to  declare,  did  not  offer 
enough  level  ground  to  set  a  hen  on.  Small  reason 
was  there  then  to  hope  that  a  city,  great  and  gra- 
cious, would  one  day  cover  those  rough  ravines  and 
grace  those  slopes  and  hilltops  in  the  angle  between 
the  Missouri  and  the  Kaw. 

Aunty  Boone  had  resented  leaving  Fort  Leaven- 

ii  151 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

worth  when  the  Clarenden  business  made  the 
young  city  at  the  Kaw's  mouth  more  desirable  for 
a  home.  But  Esmond  Clarenden  foresaw  that  a 
military  post,  when  the  protection  it  offers  is  no 
longer  needed,  will  not,  in  itself,  be  a  city-builder. 
The  war  had  brought  New  Mexico  into  United 
States  territory;  railroads  were  slowly  creeping 
westward  toward  the  Mississippi  River;  steam- 
boats and  big  covered  wagons  were  bringing  set- 
tlers into  Kansas,  where  little  cabins  were  begin- 
ning to  mark  the  landscape  with  new  hearthstones. 
Congress  was  wTangling  over  the  great  slavery 
question.  The  Eastern  lawmakers  were  stupidly 
opposing  the  efforts  of  Missouri  statesmen  to  ex- 
tend mail  routes  westward,  or  to  spend  any  energy 
toward  developing  that  so-called  worthless  region 
which  they  named  "the  great  American  desert." 
And  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  was  now  more 
than  ever  the  highway  for  the  commerical  treas- 
ures of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  great  South- 
west. 

It  was  the  time  of  budding  things.  In  the  valley 
of  the  Missouri  the  black  elm  boughs,  the  silvery 
sycamores  and  cottonwoods,  and  the  vines  on  the 
gray  rock-faced  cliffs  were  veiled  in  shimmering 
draperies  of  green,  with  here  and  there  a  little 
group  of  orchard  trees  faintly  pink  against  the 
landscape's  dainty  verdure. 

Beverly  Clarenden  and  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  a 
river  steamer  as  it  made  the  wharf  at  old  Westport 
Landing,  where  Esmond  Clarenden  waited  for  us. 
And  long  before  the  steamer's  final  bump  against 

152 


MOON   OF   THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

the  pier  we  had  noted  the  tall,  slender  girl  standing 
beside  him.  We  had  been  away  three  years,  the 
only  schooling  outside  of  Uncle  Esmond's  teaching 
we  were  ever  to  have.  We  were  big  boys  now, 
greatly  conscious  of  hands  and  feet  in  our  way, 
"razor  broke,"  Aunty  Boone  declared,  brimful  of 
hilarity  and  love  of  adventure,  and  eager  for  the 
plains  life,  and  the  dangers  of  the  old  trail  by 
which  we  were  to  conquer  or  be  conquered.  In 
the  society  of  women  we  were  timid  and  ill  at  ease. 
Aside  from  this  we  were  self-conceited,  for  we 
knew  more  of  the  world  and  felt  ourselves  more 
important  on  that  spring  morning  than  we  ever 
presumed  to  know  or  dared  to  feel  in  all  the  years 
that  followed. 

"Who  is  she,  Gail,  that  tall  one  by  little  fat 
Uncle  Esmond?"  Beverly  questioned,  as  we  neared 
the  wharf. 

"You  don't  reckon  he's  married,  Bev?  He's 
all  of  twenty-four  or  five  years  older  than  we  are, 
and  we  aren't  calves  any  more."  I  replied,  scanning 
the  group  on  the  wharf. 

But  we  forgot  the  girl  in  our  eagerness  to  bound 
down  the  gang-plank  and  hug  the  man  who  meant 
all  that  home  and  love  could  mean  to  us.  In  our 
three  growing  years  we  had  almost  eliminated  Mat 
Nivers,  save  as  a  happy  memory,  for  mails  were 
slow  in  those  days  and  we  were  poor  letter- writers; 
and  we  had  wondered  how  to  meet  her  properly 
now.  But  when  the  tall,  slender  girl  on  the  wharf 
came  forward  and  we  looked  into  the  wide  gray 
eyes  of  our  old-time  playmate  whom,  as  little  boys, 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

we  had  both  vowed  to  marry,  we  forgot  everything 
in  our  overwhelming  love  for  our  comrade-in-arms, 
our  j  oiliest  friend  and  counselor. 

"Oh,  Mat,  you  miserable  thing!"  Beverly  bub- 
bled, hugging  her  in  his  arms. 

"You  are  just  bigger  and  sweeter  than  ever.     I 

mistook  you  for  Aunty  Boone  at  first,"  I  chimed 

i  in,  kissing  her  on  each  cheek.     And  we  all  bundled 

j  away   in    an    old-fashioned,  low-swung    carriage, 

happy  as  children  again,  with  no  barrier  between 

us  and  the  dear  playmate  of  the  past. 

The  new  home,  on  the  high  crest  overlooking  the 
Missouri  valley,  nestled  deep  in  the  shade  of  maple 
and  elm  trees,  a  mansion,  compared  to  that  log 
house  of  blessed  memory  at  Fort  Leavenworth.  A 
winding  road  led  up  the  steep  slope  from  a  wooded 
ravine  where  a  trail  ran  out  from  the  little  city  by 
the  river's  edge.  Vistas  of  sheer  cliff  and  stretches 
of  the  muddy  on-sweeping  Missouri  and  the  full- 
bosomed  Kaw,  with  scrubby  timbered  ravines  and 
growing  groves  of  forest  trees,  offered  themselves 
at  every  turn.  And  from  the  top  of  the  bluff  the 
world  unrolled  in  a  panorama  of  nature's  own 
shaping  and  coloring. 

The  house  was  built  of  stone,  with  vines  climb- 
ing about  its  thick  walls,  and  broad  veranda.  And 
everywhere  Mat's  hands  had  put  homey  touches 
of  comfort  and  beauty.  An  hundredfold  did  she 
return  to  Esmond  Clarenden  all  the  care  and  pro- 
tection he  had  given  to  her  in  her  orphaned  child- 
hood. And,  after  all,  it  was  not  military  outposts, 
nor  railroads,  nor  mail-lines  alone  that  pushed 


MOON  OF  THE  PEACH  BLOSSOM 

back  the  wilderness  frontier.  It  was  the  hand  of 
woman  that  also  builded  empire  westward. 

"Mat's  got  her  wish  at  last,"  I  said,  as  we  sat 
with  Uncle  Esmond  after  dinner  under  a  big  maple 
tree  and  looked  out  at  the  far  yellow  Missouri, 
churning  its  spring  floods  to  foam  against  the 
snags  along  its  high-water  bound. 

"What's  Mat's  wish?"  -Uncle  Esmond  asked. 

"To  have  a  good  home  and  stay  there.  She 
wished  that  one  night,  years  ago  back  in  old  Fort 
Bent.  Don't  you  remember,  Bev,  when  we  were 
out  in  the  court,  and  how  scared  blue  we  all  were 
when  the  moon  went  under  a  cloud,  and  that  Indian 
boy,  Santan,  was  creeping  between  us  and  the 
home  base?" 

"No,  I  don't  remember  anything  except  that 
we  were  in  Fort  Bent.  Got  in  by  the  width  of  a 
hair  ahead  of  some  Mexicans  and  Indians,  and  got 
out  again  after  a  jolly  six  weeks.  What's  the 
real  job  for  us  now,  Uncle  Esmond? 

Uncle  Esmond  was  staring  out  toward  the  Kaw 
valley,  rimmed  by  high  bluffs  in  the  distance. 

"I  don't  know  about  Mat  having  her  wish,"  he 
said,  thoughtfully,  "but  never  mind.  Trade  is 
booming  and  I'm  needing  help  on  the  trail  this 
spring.  Jondo  starts  west  in  two  weeks." 

Beverly  and  I  sprang  up.  Six  feet  of  height, 
muscular,  adventure-loving,  fearless,  we  had  been 
made  to  order  for  the  Santa  Fe  Trail.  And  if  I  was 
still  a  dreamer  and  caught  sometimes  the  finer 
side  of  ideals,  where  Beverly  Clarenden  saw  only 
the  matter-of-fact,  visible  things,  no  shrewder, 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

braver,  truer  plainsman  ever  walked  the  long  dis- 
tances of  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  than  this  boy  with 
his  bright  face  and  happy-go-lucky  spirit  unpained 
by  dreams,  untrammeled  by  fancies. 

"Two  weeks!  We  are  ready  to  start  right  after 
supper,"  we  declared. 

"Oh,  I  have  other  matters  first,"  Uncle  Esmond 
said.  "Beverly,  you  must  go  up  to  Fort  Leaven- 
worth  and  arrange  a  lot  of  things  with  Banney  for 
this  trip.  He's  to  go,  too,  because  military  escort 
is  short  this  season." 

"Suits  me!"  Beverly  declared.  "Old  Bill  Ban- 
ney and  I  always  could  get  along  together.  And 
this  infant  here?" 

"I'm  going  to  send  Gail  down  to  the  Catholic 
Mission,  in  Kansas.  You  remember  little  Eloise 
St.  Vrain,  of  course?"  Uncle  Esmond  asked. 

"We  do!"  Beverly  assured  him.  "Pretty  as  a 
doll,  gritty  as  a  sand-bar,  snappy  as  a  lobster's 
claw — she  dwells  within  my  memory  yet." 

All  girls  were  little  children  to  us,  for  the  scheme 
of  things  had  not  included  them  in  our  affairs. 

I  threw  a  handful  of  grass  in  the  boy's  face,  and 
Uncle  Esmond  went  on. 

"She's  been  at  St.  Ann's  School  at  the  Osage 
Mission  down  on  the  Neosho  River  for  two  or 
three  years,  and  now  she  is  going  to  St.  Louis. 
In  these  troublesome  times  on  the  border,  if  I 
have  a  personal  interest,  I  feel  safer  if  some  big 
six-footer  whom  I  can  trust  comes  along  as  an 
escort  from  the  Neosho  to  the  Missouri,"  Uncle 
Esmond  explained. 

156 


MOON    OF   THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

And  then  we  spoke  of  other  things:  the  stream 
of  emigration  flowing  into  the  country,  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  prairies,  the  future  of  the  city  that 
should  hold  the  key  to  the  whole  Southwest,  and  es- 
pecially of  the  chance  and  value  of  the  trail  trade. 

"It's  the  big  artery  that  carries  the  nation's 
life-blood  here,"  Esmond  Clarenden  declared. 
"Some  day  when  the  West  is  full  of  people,  and 
dowered  with  prosperity,  it  may  remember  the 
men  who  built  the  highway  for  the  feet  of  trade  to 
run  in.  And  the  West  may  yet  measure  its  great- 
ness somewhat  by  the  honesty  and  faithfulness  of 
the  merchant  of  the  frontier,  and  more  by  the 
courage  and  persistence  of  the  boys  who  drove  the 
ox-teams  across  the  plains.  Don't  forget  that  you 
yourselves  are  State-builders  now." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  but  his  words  meant  little 
to  me.  I  was  looking  out  toward  the  wide-sweep- 
ing Kaw  and  thinking  of  the  journey  I  must 
make,  and  wondering  if  I  should  ever  feel  at  ease 
in  the  society  of  women.  Wondering,  too,  what 
I  should  say,  and  how  I  should  really  take  care  of 
"Little  Lees, "  who  had  crossed  the  plains  with  us 
almost  a  decade  ago;  the  girl  who  had  held  my 
hand  tightly  one  night  at  old  Fort  Bent  when  the 
shadow  had  slipped  across  the  moon  and  filled  the 
silvery  court  with  a  gray,  ghostly  light. 

That  night  the  old  heart-hunger  of  childhood 
came  back  to  me,  the  visions  of  the  day-dreaming 
little  boy  that  were  almost  forgotten  in  the  years 
that  had  brought  me  to  young  manhood.  And 
clearly  again,  as  when  I  heard  Uncle  Esmond's 

i57 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

voice  that  night  on  the  tableland  above  the  valley 
of  the  Santa  Fe,  I  heard  his  gentle  words : 

' '  Sometimes  the  things  we  long  for  in  our  dreams 
we  must  fight  for,  and  even  die  for,  that  those  who 
come  after  us  may  be  the  better  for  our  having 
them." 

But  these  thoughts  passed  with  the  night,  and  in 
my  youth  and  inexperience  I  took  on  a  spirit  of 
fatherly  importance  as  I  went  down  to  St.  Ann's  to 
safeguard  a  little  girl  on  her  way  through  the 
Kansas  territory  to  the  Missouri  River. 

It  had  been  a  beautiful  day,  and  there  was  a 
freshness  in  the  soft  evening  breeze,  and  an  up- 
springing  sweetness  from  the  prairies.  A  shower 
had  passed  that  way  an  hour  before,  and  the 
spirit  of  growing  things  seemed  to  fill  the  air  with 
a  voiceless  music. 

Just  at  sunset  the  stage  from  the  north  put  me 
down  in  front  of  St.  Ann's  Academy  in  the  little 
Osage  Mission  village  on  the  Neosho. 

A  tall  nun,  with  commanding  figure  and  digni- 
fied bearing,  left  the  church  steps  across  the  road 
and  came  slowly  toward  me. 

"I  am  looking  for  Mother  Bridget,  the  head 
of  this  school,"  I  said,  lifting  my  hat. 

"I  am  Mother  Bridget."  The  voice  was  low 
and  firm.  One  could  not  imagine  disobedience 
under  her  rule. 

"I  come  from  Mr.  Esmond  Clarenden,  to  act  as 
escort  for  a  little  girl,  Eloise  St.  Vrain,  who  is  to 
leave  here  on  the  stage  for  Kansas  City  to- 
morrow." I  hesitatingly  offered  my  letter  of 

158 


MOON   OF   THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

introduction,  which  told  all  that  I  had  tried  to  say, 
and  more. 

The  woman's  calm  face  was  gentle,  with  the 
protective  gentleness  of  the  stone  that  will  not 
fail  you  when  you  lean  on  it.  One  felt  sure  of 
Mother  Bridget,  as  one  feels  sure  of  the  solid  rock 
to  build  upon.  She  looked  at  me  with  keen, 
half-quizzical  eyes.  Then  she  said,  quietly: 

"You  will  find  the  little  girl  down  by  Flat  Rock 
Creek.  The  Indian  girl,  Po-a-be,  is  with  her. 
There  may  be  several  Indian  girls  down  there,  but 
Po-a-be  is  alone  with  little  Eloise." 

I  bowed  and  turned  away,  conscious  that,  with 
this  good  nun's  sincerit}^  she  was  smiling  at  me 
back  of  her  eyes  somehow. 

As  I  followed  the  way  leading  to  the  creek  I 
passed  a  group  or  two  of  Indian  girls — St.  Ann's, 
under  the  Loretto  Sisterhood,  was  fundamentally  a 
mission  school  for  these — and  a  trio  of  young 
ladies,  pretty  and  coquettish,  with  daring,  mis- 
chievous eyes,  whose  glances  made  me  flush  hot  to 
the  back  of  my  neck  as  I  stumbled  by  them  on 
my  way  to  the  stream. 

The  last  sun  rays  were  glistening  on  the  placid 
waters  of  the  Flat  Rock,  and  all  the  world  was 
softly  green,  touched  with  a  golden  glamour.  I 
paused  by  a  group  of  bushes  to  let  the  spell  of 
the  hour  have  its  way  with  me.  I  have  always 
loved  the  beautiful  things  of  earth;  as  much 
now  as  in  my  childhood  days,  when  I  felt 
ashamed  to  let  my  love  be  known ;  as  now  I  dare 
to  tell  it  only  on  paper,  and  not  to  that  dear, 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

great  circle  of  men  and  women  who  know  me  best 
to-day. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  and  the  murmur  of  soft 
voices  fitted  into  the  sweetness  of  that  evening  hour 
as  two  girls,  one  of  them  an  Indian,  came  slowly 
down  a  well-worn  path  from  the  fields  above 
the  Flat  Rock  Valley.  They  did  not  see  me  as 
they  sat  down  on  some  broad  stones  beside  the 
stream. 

I  started  forward  to  make  myself  known,  but 
caught  myself  mid-step,  for  here  was  a  picture  to 
make  any  man  pause. 

The  Indian  girl  facing  me  was  Little  Blue  Flower, 
the  Kiowas'  captive,  whom  we  had  rescued  at 
Pawnee  Rock.  Her  heavy  black  hair  was  coiled 
low  on  her  neck,  a  headband  of  fine  silverwork 
with  pink  coral  pendants  was  bound  about  her 
forehead  and  gleaming  against  her  jetty  hair. 
With  her  well-poised  head,  her  pure  Indian  feat- 
ures, her  lustrous  dark  eyes,  her  smooth  brown 
skin,  her  cheeks  like  the  heart  of  those  black-red 
roses  that  grow  only  in  richest  soil — surely  there 
was  no  finer  type  of  that  vanishing  race  in  all  the 
Indian  pueblos  of  the  Southwest.  But  the  girl  be- 
side her!  Was  it  really  so  many  years  ago  that  I 
stood  by  the  bushes  on  the  Flat  Rock's  edge  and 
saw  that  which  I  see  so  clearly  now?  Then  these 
years  have  been  gracious  indeed  to  me.  The  sun's 
level  beams  fell  on  the  masses  of  golden  waves  that 
swept  in  soft  little  ripples  back  from  the  white  brow 
to  a  coil  of  gold  on  the  white  neck,  held,  like  the 
Indian  girl's,  with  a  headband  of  wrought  silver,  and 

1 60 


MOON   OF   THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

goldveined  turquoise;  it  fell  on  the  clear,  smooth 
skin,  the  pink  bloom  of  the  cheek,  the  red  lips,  the 
white  teeth,  the  big  dark  eyes  with  their  fringe  of 
long  lashes  beneath  straight -penciled  dark  brows; 
on  the  curves  of  the  white  throat  and  the  round 
white  arms.  Only  a  master's  hand  could  make  you 
see  these  two,  beautiful  in  their  sharp  contrast  of 
deep  brown  and  scarlet  against  the  dainty  white 
and  gold. 

"Oh,  Little  Blue  Flower,  it  will  not  make  me 
change." 

1  caught  the  words  as  I  stepped  toward  the  two, 
and  the  Indian's  soft,  mournful  answer: 

"But  you  are  Miss  St.  Vrain  now.  You  go 
away  in  the  morning — and  I  love  you  always." 

The  heart  in  me  stopped  just  when  all  its  flood 
had  reached  my  face. 

"Miss  St.  Vrain,"  I  repeated,  aloud. 

The  two  sprang  up.  That  afternoon  they  had 
been  dressed  for  a  girls'  frolic  in  some  Grecian 
fashion.  I  cannot  tell  a  Watteau  pleat  from 
window-curtain.  I  am  only  a  man,  and  I  do  not 
name  draperies  well.  But  these  two  standing 
before  me  were  gowned  exactly  alike,  and  yet  I 
know  that  one  was  purely  and  artistically  Greek, 
and  one  was  purely  and  gracefully  Indian. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  Mr.  Clarenden,"  I 
managed  to  say. 

At  the  name  Little  Blue  Flower's  eyes  looked  as 
they  did  on  that  hot  May  night  out  at  Pawnee 
Rock  when  she  heard  Beverly  Clarenden' s  boyish 
voice  ring  out,  defiantly: 

161 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Uncle  Esmond,  let's  take  her,  and  take  our 
chances." 

But  the  great  light  that  had  leaped  into  the 
girl's  eyes  died  slowly  out  as  she  gazed  at  me. 

"You  are  not  Beverly  Clarenden,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"No,  I'm  Gail,  the  little  one.  Bev  is  up  at 
Fort  Leavenworth  now,"  I  replied. 

She  turned  away  without  a  word  and,  gathering 
her  draperies  about  her,  sped  up  the  pathway 
toward  the  fields  above  the  creek. 

And  we  two  were  alone  together — the  dark- 
eyed  girl  of  my  boyhood  vision,  deep-shrined  in 
the  boy-heart's  holy  of  holies,  and  I  who  had 
waited  for  her  coming.  It  was  the  hour  of  golden 
sunset  and  long  twilight  afterglow  on  the  glistening 
Flat  Rock  waters  and  the  green  prairies  beyond 
the  Neosho. 

A  sudden  awakening  came  over  me,  and  in  one 
swift  instant  I  understood  my  boyhood  dreams 
and  hopes  and  visions. 

"You  will  pardon  me  for  coming  so  abruptly, 
Miss  St.  Vrain,"  I  said.  "Mother  Bridget  told 
me  I  would  find  you  here." 

The  girl  listened  to  my  stumbling  words  with 
eyes  full  of  laughter. 

"Don't  call  me  Miss  St.  Vrain,  please.  Let 
me  be  Eloise,  and  I  can  call  you  Gail.  Even 
with  your  height  and  your  broad  shoulders  you 
haven't  changed  much.  And  in  all  these  years  I 
was  always  thinking  of  you  growing  up  just  as 

162 


MOON   OF   THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

you  are.  Let's  sit  down  and  get  acquainted 
again." 

She  offered  me  her  hand  and  we  sat  down  to- 
gether. I  could  not  speak  then,  for  one  sentence 
was  ringing  in  my  ears — "I  was  always  thinking 
of  you."  In  those  years  when  Beverly  and  I  had 
put  away  all  thoughts  of  sweethearts — they  could 
not  be  a  part  of  the  plainsman's  life  before  us — 
sweethearts  such  as  older  boys  in  school  boasted 
about,  "she  was  always  thinking  of  me."  The 
thought  brought  a  keen  hurt  as  if  I  had  done  her 
some  great  wrong,  and  it  held  me  back  from  words. 

She  could  not  interpret  my  silence,  and  a  look 
of  timidity  crept  over  her  young  face. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  so — so  bold  with  a  stran- 
ger," she  began. 

"You  aren't  bold,  and  we  aren't  strangers.  I 
was  just  too  stupid  to  think  anybody  else  could 
get  out  of  childhood  except  old  Bev  Clarenden 
and  myself,"  I  managed  to  say  at  last.  "I  even 
forgot  Mat  Nivers,  who  is  a  young  lady  now, 
and  Aunty  Boone,  who  hasn't  changed  a  kink  of 
her  woolly  hair.  But  we  couldn't  be  strangers. 
Not  after  that  trip  across  the  plains  and  living  at 
old  Fort  Bent  as  we  did." 

I  paused,  and  the  memory  of  that  last  night  at 
the  fort  made  me  steal  a  glance  at  Eloise  to  see  if 
she,  too,  remembered. 

She  was  fair  to  see  just  then,  with  the  pink 
clouds  mirrored  on  the  placid  waters  reflected  in 
the  pink  of  her  cheeks. 

"Do  you  remember  what  I  called  you  the  first 
163 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

time  I  saw  you?"  She  looked  up  with  shining 
eyes. 

"You  called  me  a  big  brown  bob-cat,  and  you 
said  I  looked  like  I'd  slept  in  the  Hondo  'royo  all 
my  life.  I  know  I  looked  it,  too.  I'll  forgive  you 
if  you  will  excuse  my  blunder  to-day.  What  be- 
came of  that  boy,  Marcos?  Have  you  ever  seen 
him  since  you  left  Santa  Fe?"  I  asked. 

The  fair  face  clouded,  and  a  look  of  longing 
crept  into  the  big,  dark  eyes  lifted  pleadingly  a 
moment  to  mine.  I  wanted  to  take  her  in  my 
arms  right  then  and  look  about  for  something  to 
kill  for  her  sake.  Yet  I  would  not,  for  the  gold 
of  all  the  Mexicos,  have  touched  the  hem  of  her 
Grecian  robe. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  Marcos  many  times.  His 
father  went  to  old  Mexico  after  the  war,  but  the 
Rameros  do  not  stay  long  anywhere.  Marcos 
made  life  miserable  for  me  sometimes."  She 
paused  suddenly. 

"The  Rameros.  Then  he  was  the  son  of  the 
man  who  was  my  uncle's  enemy.  Maybe  you  did 
as  much  for  him,  too,  sometimes.  You  had  the 
spirit  to  do  it,  anyhow,"  I  said,  lightly,  to  hide 
my  real  feeling. 

"I  was  a  little  cat.  I'm  a  lot  better  now.  Let's 
not  go  too  much  into  that  time.  Tell  me  where 
you  have  been  and  where  you  are  going."  Eloise 
changed  the  subject  easily. 

"I've  been  in  Cincinnati,  attending  a  boys' 
school  for  three  years.  I  start  for  Santa  Fe  in 
two  weeks.  My  uncle's  store  is  doing  a  big  over- 


MOON   OF    THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

land  business,  and  he  keeps  the  ox-teams  just 
fanning  one  another,  coming  and  going  across  the 
prairies.  I'm  crazy  to  go  and  see  the  open  plains 
again.  Cincinnati  is  a  city  on  stilts,  and  our 
little  Independence -Westport  Landing -Kansas 
City  place,  as  the  Cincinnati  of  the  great  American 
desert,  is  also  pretty  bumpy,  the  last  place  on 
earth  to  put  a  town — only  we  can  see  almost  to 
Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico,  from  the  hilltops.  Won't 
it  be  great  to  view  that  mud-walled  town  again? 
Bev  is  going,  too — to  kill  a  few  Indians  for  our 
winter's  meat,  he  says,  in  his  wicked,  blood-thirsty 
way."  So  I  ran  on,  glad  to  be  alive  in  the  deli- 
cious beauty  of  that  spring  evening  as  we  together 
went  back  over  the  days  of  our  young  years. 

"Gail,  may  we  take  another  passenger  to- 
morrow?" Eloise  asked,  suddenly. 

"Why,  as  many  as  the  stage  will  hold!  There's 
to  be  a  nun  and  a  priest  and  yourself.  I'm  chape- 
ron. I  could  take  the  priest  on  my  lap  if  he  isn't 
too  bulky,"  I  answered. 

"I  want  to  take  Po-a-be.  I  can't  tell  you  why 
now." 

The  lashes  dropped  over  the  brown  eyes,  and  I 
wondered  how  she  could  think  that  I  could  refuse 
her  anything. 

"Oh,  we'll  take  her  on  faith  and  the  stage- 
coach. She  can  come  right  to  Castle  Clarenden 
and  stay  till  she  gets  ready  to  hurdle  off  to  her 
own  'wickie  up'.  She  has  grown  into  a  beauti- 
ful Indian  woman,  though  I  couldn't  call  her  a 
squaw." 

165 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"She  isn't  a  squaw.  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say 
that.  I  think  it  will  make  her  very  happy  to 
stay  at  your  home  for  a  while.  She  will  miss  me 
a  little  when  we  leave  here,  maybe,"  Eloise  said, 
looking  at  me  with  a  grateful  smile  that  sent  a 
tingle  to  my  fingertips. 

"Won't  you  stay,  too?"  I  asked,  suddenly 
realizing  that  this  beautiful  girl  might  slip  away  as 
easily  as  she  had  come  into  my  life  here. 

Eloise  laughed  at  my  earnestness. 

"I  couldn't  stay  long,"  she  said,  lightly. 

"And  why  not?"  I  burst  in,  eagerly.  "What 
have  you  in  Santa  Fe?" 

"A  little  money  and  a  lot  of  memories,"  she 
replied,  seriously. 

"Oh,  I  can  bring  the  money  up  to  Kansas  for 
you  in  an  ox-train  easily  enough,  and  you  could 
blow  up  the  old  mud-box  of  a  town  and  not  hurt  a 
hair  on  the  head  of  a  single  memory.  You  know 
you  can  take  them  anywhere  you  go.  I  do  mine." 

"I'm  going  to  St.  Louis,  anyhow,"  Eloise  re- 
turned, ' '  and  you  have  no  sacred  memories — boys 
don't  care  for  things  like  girls  do." 

"They  don't?  They  don't?  And  I  have  for- 
gotten the  little  girl  who  was  afraid  one  moonlit 
night  out  in  the  court  at  Fort  Bent  and  asked  me 
that  I  shouldn't  ever  let  Marcos  pull  her  hair. 
Yes,  boys  forget." 

I  laid  my  hand  on  her  arm  and  bent  forward  to 
look  into  her  face.  For  just  one  flash  those  big 
dark  eyes  looked  straight  at  me,  with  something 
in  their  depths  that  I  shall  never  forget. 

166 


MOON   OF   THE    PEACH    BLOSSOM 

Then  she  moved  lightly  from  me. 

"Oh,  all  children  remember,  I  suppose.  I  do, 
anyhow — a  thousand  things  I'd  like  to  forget. 
It  is  lovely  by  the  river.  Suppose  we  go  down 
there  for  a  little  while.  I  must  not  stay  out  here 
too  long." 

I  took  her  arm  and  we  strolled  down  the  quiet 
path  in  the  twilight  sweetness  to  where  the  broad 
Neosho,  brim  full  from  the  spring  rains,  swept  on 
between  picturesque  banks.  The  afterglow  of 
sunset  was  flaming  gorgeously  above  the  western 
prairies,  and  the  mists  along  the  Neosho  were 
lavender  and  mother-of-pearl.  And  before  all  this 
had  deepened  to  purple  darkness  the  full  moon 
would  swing  up  the  sky,  swathing  the  earth  with  a 
softened  radiance.  All  the  beauty  of  this  warm 
spring  night  seemed  but  a  setting  for  this  girl  in  her 
graceful  Greek  draperies,  with  the  waving  gold 
of  her  hair  and  her  dainty  pink-and-white  coloring. 

A  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  had  begun  for 
me,  and  a  delicious  longing,  clean  and  sweet,  that 
swept  every  commoner  feeling  far  away.  What 
matter  that  the  life  before  me  be  filled  with 
danger,  and  all  the  coarse  and  cruel  things  of  the 
hard  days  of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail?  In  that  hour  I 
knew  the  best  of  life  that  a  young  man  can  know. 
Its  benediction  after  all  these  years  of  change  is 
on  me  still.  Awhile  we  watched  the  flashing 
ripples  on  the  river,  and  the  sky's  darkening  after- 
glow. Then  we  turned  to  the  moonlit  east. 

' '  Do  you  know  what  the  people  of  Hopiland  call 
this  month?"  Eloise  asked. 

12  167 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE   PLAINS 

"I  don't  know  Hopi  words  for  what  is  beauti- 
ful," I  replied. 

'"They  call  it  'the  Moon  of  the  Peach  Blos- 
som', and  they  cherish  the  time  in  their  calendar." 

"Then  we  will  be  Hopi  people,"  I  declared, 
"for  it  was  in  their  Moon  of  the  Peach  Blossom 
that  you  grew  up  for  me  from  the  little  girl  who 
called  me  a  bob-cat  down  in  the  doorway  of  the  old 
San  Miguel  Church  in  Santa  Fe,  and  from  Aunty 
Boone's  'Little  Lees'  at  old  Fort  Bent,  to  the 
Eloise  of  St.  Ann's  by  the  Kansas  Neosho." 

The  sound  of  a  sweet-toned  bell  told  us  that  we 
must  not  stay  longer,  and  together  we  followed 
the  path  from  the  Flat  Rock  up  to  the  academy 
door.  And  all  the  way  was  like  the  ways  of 
Paradise  to  me,  for  I  was  in  the  peach-blossom 
moon  of  my  own  life. 


X 

THE    HANDS   THAT   CLING 

The  hands  that  take 

No  weight  from  your  sad  cross,  oh,  lighter  far 
It  were  but  for  the  burden  that  they  bring! 
God  only  knows  what  hind'ring  things  they  are — 

The  hands  that  cling. 

— ESTHER  M.  CLARK 

THE  next  morning  three  of  us  waited  in  the 
stage  before  the  door  of  St.  Ann's  Academy. 
A  thin-faced  nun,  who  was  called  Sister  Anita,  sat 
beside  Eloise  St.  Vrain,  her  snowy  head-dress,  with 
her  black  veil  and  somber  garments,  contrasting 
sharply  with  the  silver-gray  hat  and  traveling 
costume  of  her  companion.  Hints  of  pink-satin 
linings  to  coat-collar  and  pocket-flaps,  and  the 
pink  facing  of  the  broad  hat-brim,  seemed  bor- 
rowed from  the  silver  and  pink  of  misty  morn- 
ing skies,  with  the  golden  hair  catching  the  glint 
of  all  the  early  sunbeams.  There  was  a  tender- 
ness in  the  bright  face,  the  sadness  which  part- 
ing puts  temporarily  into  young  countenances. 
The  girl  looked  lovingly  at  the  church,  and  St. 
Ann's,  and  the  green  fields  reaching  up  to  the 
edge  of  the  mission  premises. 

169 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

As  we  waited,  Mother  Bridget  and  Little  Blue 
Flower  came  slowly  out  of  the  academy  door. 
The  good  mother's  arm  was  around  the  Indian 
girl,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  looked 
down  affectionately  at  the  dark  face. 

Little  Blue  Flower,  true  to  her  heritage,  gave 
'no  sign  of  grief  save  for  the  burning  light  in  her 
big,  dry  eyes.  She  listened  silently  to  Mother 
Bridget's  parting  words  of  advice  and  submitted 
without  response  to  the  embrace  and  gentle  good- 
by  kiss  on  her  brown  forehead. 

The  good  woman  gazed  into  my  face  with  pene- 
trating eyes,  as  if  to  measure  my  trustworthiness. 

"You  will  see  that  no  harm  comes  to  my  little 
Po-a-be.  The  wolves  of  the  forest  are  not  the  only 
danger  for  the  unprotected  lambs,"  she  said, 
earnestly. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  Mother  Bridget,"  I  responded, 
feeling  a  swelling  pride  in  my  double  charge. 

Mother  Bridget  patted  Eloise's  hand  and  turned 
away.  She  loved  all  of  her  girls,  but  her  heart 
went  out  most  to  the  Indian  maidens  whom  she 
led  toward  her  civilization  and  her  sacred  creed. 

As  she  turned  away,  the  priest  who  was  to  go 
with  us  came  out  of  the  church  door  to  the  stage. 

Little  Blue  Flower  sat  with  the  other  two 
women,  facing  us,  her  dark-green  dress  with  her 
rich  coloring  making  as  strong  a  contrast  as  the 
nun's  black  robe  against  the  pink-touched  silver- 
gray  gown.  And  the  Indian  face,  strong,  im- 
penetrable, with  a  faintly  feminine  softening  of 
the  racial  features,  and  the  luminous  black  eyes, 

170 


THE    HANDS   THAT   CLING 

gave  setting  to  the  pure  Saxon  type  of  her  com- 
panion. 

I  turned  from  the  three  to  greet  the  priest  and 
give  him  a  place  beside  me.  His  face  seemed 
familiar,  but  it  was  not  until  I  heard  his  voice,  in 
a  courteous  good-morning,  that  I  knew  him  to  be 
the  Father  Josef  who  had  met  us  on  the  way  into 
Santa  Fe  years  before,  and  who  later  had  shown 
us  the  little  golden-haired  girl  asleep  on  the  hard 
bench  in  the  old  mission  church  of  Agua  Fria. 
A  page  of  my  boyhood  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
opened  there,  and  I  wondered  curiously  at  the 
meaning  of  it  all.  Life,  that  for  three  years  had 
been  something  of  a  monotonous  round  of  action 
for  a  boy  of  the  frontier,  was  suddenly  filling  each 
day  with  events  worth  while.  I  wondered  many 
things  concerning  Father  Josef's  presence  there, 
but  I  had  the  grace  to  ask  no  questions  as  we  five 
journeyed  over  the  rolling  green  prairies  of  Kansas 
in  the  pleasant  time  of  year  which  the  Hopi  calls 
the  Moon  of  the  Peach  Blossom. 

The  priest  appeared  hardly  a  day  older  than 
when  I  had  first  seen  him,  and  he  chatted  genially 
as  we  rode  along. 

,  "We  are  losing  two  of  our  stars,"  he  said,  with  a 
gallant  little  bow.  "Miss  St.  Vrain  goes  to  St. 
Louis  to  relatives,  I  believe,  and  Little  Blue 
Flower,  eventually,  to  New  Mexico.  St.  Ann's 
under  Mother  Bridget  is  doing  a  wonderful  work 
among  our  people,  but  it  is  not  often  that  a 
girl  comes  here  from  such  a  distance  as  New 
Mexico." 

171 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

I  tried  to  fancy  what  the  Indian  girl's  thoughts 
might  be  as  the  priest  said  this,  but  her  face,  as 
usual,  gave  no  clue  to  her  mind's  activity. 

Where  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  crossed  the  Wakarusa 
Father  Josef  left  us  to  join  a  wagon -train  going 
west.  Sister  Anita,  who  was  hurrying  back  to 
Kentucky,  she  said,  on  some  churchly  errand,  took 
a  steamer  at  Westport  Landing,  and  the  three  of  us 
came  to  the  Clarenden  home  on  the  crest  of  the 
bluff. 

We  had  washed  off  our  travel  stains  and  come 
out  on  the  veranda  when  we  saw  Beverly  Claren- 
den standing  in  the  sunlight,  waiting  for  us.  I 
had  never  seen  him  look  so  handsome  as  he  did 
that  day,  dressed  in  the  full  regalia  of  the  plains :  a 
fringed  and  beaded  buckskin  coat,  dark  panta- 
loons held  inside  of  high-topped  boots,  a  flannel 
shirt,  with  a  broad  black  silk  tie  fastened  in  a  big 
bow  at  his  throat,  and  his  wide-brimmed  felt  hat 
set  back  from  his  forehead.  Clean-shaven,  his 
bright  brown  hair — a  trifle  long,  after  the  custom  of 
the  frontier — flung  back  from  his  brow,  his  bloom- 
ing face  wearing  the  happy  smile  of  youth,  his 
tall  form  easily  erect,  he  seemed  the  very  embodi- 
ment of  that  defiant  power  that  swept  the  old 
Santa  Fe  Trail  clean  for  the  feet  of  its  commerce 
to  run  swiftly  along.  I  am  glad  that  I  never 
envied  him — brother  of  my  heart,  who  loved 
me  so. 

He  was  not  as  surprised  as  I  had  been  to  find 
the  grown-up  girl  instead  of  the  little  child.  That 
wasn't  Beverly's  way. 

172 


THE    HANDS    THAT   CLING 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  meet  you  again,"  he  said, 
with  jaunty  air,  grasping  Eloise  by  the  hand. 
"You  look  just  as — shall  I  say  promising,  as 
ever." 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Beverly.  You  and  Gail 
have  been  my  biggest  assets  of  memory  these 
many  years."  Eloise  was  at  ease  with  him  in  a 
moment.  Somehow  they  never  misunderstood 
each  other. 

"Oh,  I'm  always  an  asset,  but  Gail  here  gets  to 
be  a  liability  if  you  let  him  stay  around  too 
long." 

"Here  is  somebody  else.  Don't  you  remember 
Little  Blue  Flower?"  Eloise  interrupted  him. 

"Little  Blue  Flower!  Why,  I  should  say  I  do! 
And  are  you  that  little  blossom?" 

Beverly's  face  beamed,  and  he  caught  the  Indian 
girl's  hand  in  both  of  his  in  a  brotherly  grasp. 
He  wasn't  to  blame  that  nature  had  made  him 
frank  and  unimaginative. 

"I  haven't  forgotten  the  last  time  I  saw  your 
face  in  a  wide  crack  between  two  adobe  shacks.  A 
'flower  in  the  crannied  wall'  in  that  'pure  water' 
sand-pile  in  New  Mexico.  I'd  have  plucked  you 
out  of  the  cranny  right  then,  if  old  Rex  Krane 
hadn't  given  us  our  'forward  march!'  orders, 
and  an  Indian  boy,  ten  feet  high  and  sneaky  as  a 
cat,  hadn't  been  lurking  in  the  middle  distance  to 
pluck  me  as  SL  brand  for  the  burning.  And  now 
you  are  a  St.  Ann's  girl,  a  good  little  Catholic. 
How  did  you  ever  get  away  up  into  Kansas 
Territory,  anyhow?" 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Beverly  had  unconsciously  held  the  girl's  hand 
as  he  spoke,  but  at  the  mention  of  the  Indian  boy 
she  drew  back  and  her  bright  face  became  ex- 
pressionless. 

Just  then  Mat  Nivers  joined  us — Mat,  whom 
the  Lord  made  to  smooth  the  way  for  every- 
body around  her — and  we  sat  down  for 
a  visit. 

"We  are  all  here,  friends  of  my  youthful  days," 
Beverly  went  on,  gaily.  "Bill  Banney  and  Jondo 
are  down  in  the  Clarenden  warehouse  packing 
merchandise  for  the  Santa  Fe  trade.  Even  big 
black  Aunty  Boone,  getting  supper  in  there,  is  still 
a  feature  of  this  circus.  If  only  that  slim  Yankee, 
Rex  Krane,  would  appear  here  now.  Uncle 
Esmond  tells  me  he  is  to  be  here  soon,  and  if  all 
goes  well  he  will  go  with  us  to  Santa  Fe  again. 
How  about  it,  Mat?  Can't  you  hurry  his  coming 
a  bit?" 

But  Mat  was  staring  at  the  roadway  leading  to 
the  ravine  below  us.  Her  wide  gray  eyes  were  full 
of  eagerness  and  her  cheeks  were  pink  with  excite- 
ment. For,  sure  enough,  there  was  Rex  Krane 
striding  up  the  hill,  with  the  easy  swing  of  vigorous 
health.  No  longer  the  slender,  slouching  young 
idol  of  my  boyhood  days,  with  Eastern  cut  of  gar- 
ment and  devil-may-care  dejection  of  manner,  all 
hiding  a  loving  tenderness  for  the  unprotected,  and 
a  daring  spirit  that  scorned  danger. 

"It's  the  old  settlers'  picnic,  eh!  The  gather- 
ing of  the  wild  tribes — anything  you  want  to 
call  it,  so  we  smoke  the  peace  pipe." 

174 


THE   HANDS   THAT   CLING 

Rex  greeted  all  of  us  as  we  rushed  upon  him. 
But  the  first  hands  he  reached  for  were  the  hands  of 
our  loving  big  sister  Mat.  And  he  held  them 
dose  in  his  as  he  looked  down  into  her  beautiful 
eyes. 

A  sudden  rush  of  memories  brought  back  to  me 
the  long  days  on  the  trail  in  the  middle  '40*5,  and 
I  knew  now  why  he  had  always  looked  at  Mat 
when  he  talked  to  all  of  us.  And  I  used  to  think 
that  he  must  have  had  a  little  sister  like  her.  Now 
I  knew  in  an  instant  why  Mat  could  not  meet  his 
eyes  to-day  with  that  unconcern  with  which  she 
met  them  when  she  was  a  child  to  me,  and  he,  all 
of  five  years  ahead  of  her,  was  very  grown  up. 
I  knew  more,  for  I  had  entered  a  new  land  myself 
since  the  hour  by  the  shimmering  Flat  Rock  in 
the  Moon  of  the  Peach  Blossom,  and  I  was  alive 
to  every  tint  and  odor  and  musical  note  for  every 
other  wayfarer  therein. 

That  was  a  glorious  week  that  followed,  and 
one  to  remember  on  the  long  trail  days  coming  to 
us.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  happy  youth  of 
to-day,  but  I  feel  no  sense  of  loss  nor  spirit  of 
envy  when  they  tell  me — all  young  people  are 
my  friends — when  they  tell  me  of  golf-links  and 
automobile  rides,  or  even  the  daring  hint  of  air- 
planes. To  the  heart  of  youth  the  gasolene-motor 
or  the  thrill  of  the  air-craft  to-day  is  no  more  than 
the  Indian  pony  and  the  uncertain  chance  of  the 
crude  old  canoe  on  the  clear  waters  of  the  Big  Blue 
when  Kansas  City  was  a  village  and  the  Kansas 
prairies  were  in  their  virgin  glory. 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE   PLAINS 

Bill  Banney  had  come  out  of  the  Mexican  War, 
no  longer  an  adventure  lover,  but  a  seasoned 
frontiersman.  His  life  knew  few  of  the  gentler 
touches.  He  gave  it  to  the  plains,  where  so  many 
lives  went,  unhonored  and  unsung,  into  the  build- 
ing of  an  enduring  empire. 

We  would  have  included  him  in  all  the  frolic  of 
that  wonderful  week  in  the  Moon  of  the  Peach 
Blossom — but  he  gave  us  no  opportunity  to  do  so. 
And  we  were  young,  and  the  society  of  girls  was  a 
revelation  to  us.  So  with  the  carelessness  of 
youth  we  forgot  him.  We  forgot  many  things  that 
week  that,  in  Heaven's  name,  we  had  cause  enough 
to  remember  in  the  years  that  followed  after. 

"There's  a  theatrical  troupe  come  up  from  St. 
Louis  to  play  here  to-night,"  Rex  Krane  an- 
nounced, after  supper.  ' '  Mat,  will  you  let  me  take 
you  down  to  see  the  villain  get  what's  due  all  vil- 
lains? Then  if  we  have  to  kill  off  Gail  and  Bev, 
it  will  not  be  so  awkward." 

"Can't  we  all  go?"  Mat  suggested. 

"Never  mind  us,  Lady  Nivers.  Little  Blue 
Flower,  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  ? 
I  need  protection  to-night,"  Beverly  said,  with 
much  ceremony. 

Little  Blue  Flower  was  sitting  next  to  him,  or  it 
might  not  have  begun  that  way. 

"Oh,  say  yes.  He's  no  poorer  company  than 
that  company  of  actors  down  town,"  Rex  urged. 

The  Indian  girl  assented  with  a  smile. 

She  did  not  smile  often  and  when  she  did  her 
eyes  were  full  of  light,  and  her  red  lips  and  perfect 

176 


THE    HANDS    THAT   CLING 

white  teeth  were  beautiful  enough  for  a  queen  to 
envy. 

"Little  Lees,  it  seems  you.  are  doomed  to  de- 
pend on  Gail  or  jump  in  the  Kaw.  I'd  prefer  the 
Kaw  myself,  but  life  is  full  of  troubles.  One 
more  can  be  endured."  Rex  had  turned  to  Eloise 
St.  Vrain. 

"Seems  to  me,  having  first  choice,  you  might 
have  been  more  considerate  of  my  lot  yourself," 
Eloise  declared. 

"He  was.  He  saved  you  from  a  worse  fate 
when  he  chose  Mat,"  I  broke  in. 

"May  we  have  a  song  by  the  choir?"  Beverly 
interrupted,  and  with  his  full  bass  voice  he  began 
to  roar  our  some  popular  tune  of  that  time. 

And  it  went  on  as  it  began,  the  rambles  about 
the  rugged  bluffs  and  picturesque  ravines,  where 
to-day  the  hard-surfaced  Cliff  Drive  makes  a 
scenic  highway  through  the  beauty  spots  of  a 
populous  city;  the  daring  canoe  rides  on  the 
rivers;  the  gatherings  of  the  young  folk  in  the 
town;  and  the  long  twilight  hours  on  the  crest  of 
the  bluff  overlooking  the  two  great  waterways. 
And  as  by  the  first  selection,  Beverly  and  Little 
Blue  Flower  were  companions.  Nobody  could  be 
unhappy  with  Bev,  least  of  all  the  shy  Indian  girl 
with  a  face  full  of  sunshine,  now.  And  I?  I 
walked  a  pathway  strewn  with  rose  petals  because 
the  golden-haired  Little  Lees  was  beside  me.  Each 
day  was  a  frolic  day  for  us,  teasing  one  another 
and  making  a  joke  of  life,  and  for  the  morrow  we 
took  no  thought  at  all. 

177 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

One  evening  Eloise  St.  Vrain  and  I  sat  together 
on  the  bluff.  It  was  the  twilight  hour,  and  all  the 
far  valley  of  the  Kaw  was  full  of  iridescent  misty 
lights,  with  gold-tipped  clouds  of  pale  lavender 
above,  and  the  glistening  silver  of  the  river  below. 
We  could  hear  Beverly  and  Little  Blue  Flower 
laughing  together  in  a  big  swing  among  the 
maples.  Aunty  Boone  was  crooning  some  African 
melodies  in  the  bushes  half-way  down  the  slope. 
Rex  and  Mat  had  gone  to  the  ravine  below  to  meet 
Uncle  Esmond. 

"Little  Lees,  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you  you 
were  away  out  there  in  such  a  misty  light  as  that, 
and  I  saw  only  your  hair  and  your  eyes  then,  but 
as  clearly  as  I  see  them  now." 

Eloise  turned  questioningly  toward  me,  and  the 
light  in  her  dark  eyes  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  me. 
In  all  her  stay  with  us  I  had  hardly  spoken  earnest- 
ly of  anything  before. 

"When  was  that  Gail?"  she  asked,  the  frivolous 
spirit  gone  from  her,  too. 

"When  I  was  a  little  boy,  one  day  at  Fort 
Leavenworth.  And  when  I  caught  sight  of  you 
at  the  door  of  old  San  Miguel  I  knew  you,"  I 
replied. 

The  girl  turned  her  face  toward  the  west  again 
and  was  silent.  I  felt  my  cheeks  flush  hotly.  I 
had  made  her  think  I  was  only  a  dream-sick  fool, 
when  I  had  told  her  of  the  sacredest  moment  of 
my  life,  and  I  had  for  the  minute  foolishly  felt 
that  she  might  understand.  How  could  I  know 
that  it  was  I  who  could  not  understand? 

178 


THE    HANDS    THAT    CLING 

At  last  she  looked  up  with  a  smile  as  full  of  mis- 
chief as  on  that  day  when  she  had  called  me  a  big 
brown  bob-cat. 

"You  must  have  been  having  a  nightmare  in 
your  sleep,"  she  declared. 

"I  think  I  was,"  I  replied,  testily.  "Let  me 
tell  you  something,  Little  Lees,  something  really 
important." 

' '  I  don't  believe  you  know  one  important  thing, ' ' 
Eloise  replied,  "but  I'll  listen,  and  then  if  it  is  I'll 
tell  you  something  more  important." 

"I'm  willing  to  hear  it  now.  Tell  me  first,"  I 
replied,  wondering  the  while  how  nature,  that 
gives  rough-hewn  bearded  faces  to  men,  could 
make  a  face  so  daintily  colored,  in  its  youthful 
roundness,  as  hers. 

"I'm  going  to  start  to  St.  Louis  day  after  to- 
morrow at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Isn't  that 
important?" 

Was  there  a  real  earnestness  under  the  lightly 
spoken  words,  or  did  I  imagine  it  so?  If  I  had 
only  made  sure  then — but  I  was  young. 

"Important!  It's  a  tragedy!  I  start  west  in 
three  days,  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  I  said, 
carelessly. 

Sometimes  the  gray  shadows  fall  on  us  when 
neither  sunlight  nor  moonlight  nor  starlight  is 
dimmed  by  any  film  of  vapor.  They  fell  on  me 
then,  and  I  shivered  in  my  soul.  How  could  I 
speak  otherwise  than  carelessly  and  not  show  what 
must  not  be  known?  And  how  could  the  girl  be- 
side me  know  that  I  was  speaking  thus  to  keep 

179 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

down  the  shiver  of  that  cold  shadow  ?  I  suppose  it 
must  always  be  the  same  old  story,  year  after 
year — 

till  the  leaves  of  the  judgment  book  unfold. 

"What  was  that  important  something  you  were 
going  to  tell  me?  What  Mat  told  me  last  night 
when  we  were  watching  the  moon  rise?"  Eloise 
asked. 

"That  Rex  and  Mat  are  going  to  be  married  to- 
morrow evening  at  early  candle-lighting — 'early 
mosquito-biting,'  Bev  calls  it.  Rex  has  loved 
Mat  since  the  day  when  he  joined  our  little  wagon- 
train  out  of  a  foolish  sort  of  notion  that  he  could 
protect  us  children,  otherwise  his  life  was  useless 
to  him.  But  something  in  his  own  boyhood  made 
him  pity  all  orphan  children.  I  think  it  was 
through  neglect  in  childhood  he  became  an  in- 
valid at  nineteen.  He  doesn't  show  the  marks 
of  it  now." 

I  paused  and  looked  at  the  young  girl  beside 
me,  whose  eyes  were  like  stars  in  the  deepening 
gloom  of  the  evening.  It  was  delicious  to  have 
her  look  at  me  and  listen  to  me.  It  was  delicious 
to  live  in  a  rose-hued  twilight,  and  I  forgot  the 
chill  of  that  gray  shadow  lurking  near. 

The  next  evening  was  entrancing  with  the  soft 
air  of  spring,  a  night  made  purposely  for  brides. 
The  wedding  itself  was  simple  in  its  appointments, 
as  such  events  must  needs  be  in  the  frontier  years. 
All  day  we  had  worked  to  decorate  the  plain  stone 
house,  which  the  deftness  of  Little  Blue  Flower 

180 


THE    HANDS    THAT   CLING 

and  the  artistic  touch  of  Little  Lees  turned  into 
a  spring  bower,  with  trailing  vines  and  blossoms 
everywhere. 

Mat's  wedding-gown  was  neither  new  nor 
elaborate,  for  the  affair  had  been  too  hastily  de- 
cided on,  but  Eloise  had  made  it  bride-like  by 
draping  a  filmy  veil  over  Mat's  bright  brown  hair, 
and  Little  Blue  Flower  had  brought  her  long 
strands  of  turquoise  beads,  "old  and  borrowed 
and  blue,"  to  fulfil  the  needs  of  every  bride. 

In  the  bridal  party  Beverly  and  I  walked  in 
front,  followed  by  the  two  girls  in  the  white  Greek 
robes  which  they  had  worn  at  the  school  frolic  at 
St.  Ann's,  and  wearing  their  head-bands,  the  one 
of  silver  and  turquoise,  the  other  of  silver  and 
coral.  Then  came  Rex  Krane  and  Bill  Banney. 
Poor  Bill!  Nobody  guessed  that  night  that  the 
bridal  blossoms  were  flowers  on  the  coffin  of  his 
dead  hope.  And  last  of  all,  Esmond  Clarenden 
and  Mat  Nivers,  with  shining  eyes,  leaning  on  his 
arm.  I  had  never  seen  Uncle  Esmond  in  evening 
dress  before,  nor  dreamed  how  splendid  a  figure  he 
could  make  for  a  drawing-room  in  the  costume  in 
which  he  was  so  much  at  ease.  But  the  hand- 
somest man  of  all  the  large  company  gathered 
there  that  night  was  Jondo,  big,  broad-shouldered 
Jondo,  his  deep-blue  eyes  bright  with  joy  for  these 
two.  And  in  the  background  was  Aunty  Boone, 
resplendent  in  a  new  red  calico  besprinkled  with 
her  favorite  white  dots,  her  head  turbaned  in  a 
yellow  silk  bandana,  and  about  her  neck  a  strand 
of  huge  green  glass  beads.  Her  eyes  glistened  as 

181 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

she  watched  that  night's  events,  and  her  com- 
fortable ejaculations  of  approval  were  like  the 
low  purr  of  a  satisfied  cat.  Then  came  the  solemn 
pledges,  the  benediction  and  congratulations. 
There  was  merrymaking  and  singing,  cake  and 
unfermented  wine  of  grapes  for  refreshing,  and 
much  good  will  that  night. 

When  the  guests  were  gone  and  the  lights,  save 
one  kitchen  candle,  were  all  out,  I  had  slipped 
from  the  dining-room  with  the  last  burden  of 
dishes,  when  I  paused  a  minute  beside  the  open 
kitchen  window  to  let  the  midnight  breeze  cool 
my  face. 

On  the  side  porch,  a  little  affair  made  to  shelter 
the  doorway,  I  saw  Beverly  Clarenden  and  Little 
Blue  Flower.  He  was  speaking  gently,  but 
with  his  blunt  frankness,  as  he  patted  the  two 
brown  hands  clinging  to  his  arm.  The  Indian 
girl's  white  draperies  were  picturesque  anywhere. 
In  this  dramatic  setting  they  were  startlingly 
beautiful,  and  her  face,  outlined  in  the  dim 
light,  was  a  thing  rare  to  see.  I  could  not  hear 
her  words,  but  her  soft  Hopi  voice  had  a  tender 
tone. 

I  was  waiting  to  let  them  pass  in  when  I  heard 
Beverly's  voice,  and  I  saw  him  bend  over  the  little 
maiden,  and,  putting  one  arm  around  her,  he  drew 
her  close  to  him  and  kissed  her  forehead.  I  knew 
it  was  a  brother's  sympathetic  act — and  all  men 
know  how  dangerous  a  thing  that  is ;  that  there  are 
no  ties4}inding  brother  to  sister  except  the  bonds  of 
kindred  blood.  The  girl  slipped  inside  the  dining- 

182 


THE    HANDS    THAT   CLING 

room  door,  and  a  minute  later  a  candle  flickered 
behind  her  bedroom  window-blind  in  the  gable  of 
the  house.  I  waited  for  Beverly  to  go,  deter- 
mined never  to  mention  what  I  had  seen,  when  I 
caught  the  clear  low  voice  whose  tones  could  make 
my  pulse  thresh  in  its  walls. 

"Beverly,  Beverly,  it  breaks  my  heart — "  I  lost 
the  remainder  of  the  sentence,  but  Beverly's  words 
were  clear  and  direct  and  full  of  a  frank  surprise. 

"Eloise,  do  you  really  care?" 

I  turned  away  quickly  that  I  might  not  hear  any 
more.  The  rest  of  that  night  I  sat  wide  awake 
and  staring  at  the  misty  valley  of  the  Kaw,  where 
silvery  ripples  flashed  up  here  and  there  against 
the  shadowy  sand-bars. 

The  steamboat  for  St.  Louis  left  the  Westport 
Landing  wharf  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  before 
the  mists  had  lifted  over  the  big  yellow  Missouri. 
From  our  bluff  I  saw  the  smoke  belch  from  its 
stacks  as  it  pulled  away  and  started  down-stream ; 
but  only  Uncle  Esmond  and  Jondo  waited  to  wave 
good-by  to  the  sweet-faced  girl  looking  back  at 
them  from  its  deck.  Beverly  had  overslept,  and 
Little  Blue  Flower  had  left  an  hour  earlier  with  a 
wagon-train  starting  west  toward  Council  Grove. 
In  her  room  lay  the  white  Grecian  robe  and  the 
head-band  of  wrought  silver  with  coral  pendants. 
On  the  little  white  pin-cushion  on  the  dressing- 
table  the  bright  pin-heads  spelled  out  one  Hopi 
word  that  carries  all  good  will  and  blessing, 
LOLOMI. 

13  183 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

Twenty-four  hours  later  Rex  Krane  left  his 
bride,  and  he  and  Bill  Banney  and  Beverly  and  I, 
under  command  of  Jondo,  started  on  our  long  trip 
overland  to  Santa  Fe.  And  two  of  us  carried 
some  memories  we  hoped  to  lose  when  new  scenes 
and  certain  perils  should  surround  us. 


XI 

'OUR   FRIENDS — THE    ENEMY 


And  you  all  know  security 
Is  mortal's  chief est  enemy. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


IN  St.  Louis  and  Kansas  City  men  of  Esmond 
Clarenden's  type  were  sending  out  great  cara- 
vans of  goods  and  receiving  return  cargoes  across 
the  plains — pioneer  trade-builders,  uncrowned 
sovereigns  of  national  expansion — against  whose 
enduring  power  wars  for  conquest  are  as  flashlight 
to  daylight.  And  Beverly  Clarenden  and  I,  with 
the  whole  battalion  of  plainsmen — "bull- whack- 
ers, "  in  the  common  parlance  of  the  Santa  Fe 
Trail — who  drove  those  caravans  to  and  fro,  may 
also  have  been  State-builders,  as  Uncle  Esmond 
had  declared  we  would  be.  Yet  we  hardly  looked 
like  makers  of  empire  in  those  summer  days  when 
we  followed  the  great  wagon-trains  along  the 
prairies  and  over  the  mountain  passes. 

Two  of  us  had  come  home  from  school  hilari- 
ously eager  for  the  trail  service.  But  the  silent 
plains  made  men  thoughtful  and  introspective. 
Days  of  endless  level  landscapes  under  wide-arch- 

185 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

ing  skies,  and  nights  in  the  open  beneath  the 
everlasting  silent  stars,  give  a  man  time  to  get 
close  to  himself,  to  relive  his  childhood,  to  measure 
human  values,  to  hear  the  voice  in  the  storm-cloud 
and  the  song  of  low-purring  winds,  to  harden 
against  the  monotonous  glare  of  sunlight,  to  defy 
the  burning  heat,  and  to  feel — aye,  to  feel  the 
spell  of  crystal  day-dawns  and  the  sweetness  of 
velvet-shadowed  twilights.  Beverly  and  I  were 
typical  plainsmen  in  that  we  never  spoke  of  these 
things  to  each  other — that  is  not  the  way  of  the 
plainsman. 

Our  company  had  been  organized  at  Council 
Grove — three  trains  of  twenty-six  wagons  each, 
drawn  by  three  or  four  spans  of  mules  or  yoke  of 
oxen,  guarded  by  eightscore  of  "bull-whackers." 
And  there  were  a  dozen  or  more  ponies  trained  for 
swift  riding  in  cases  of  emergency.  There  were 
also  half  a  dozen  private  outfits  under  protection 
of  the  large  body. 

The  usual  election  before  starting  had  made 
Jondo  captain  of  the  whole  company.  His  was 
the  controlling  type  of  spirit  that  could  have  bent 
a  battalion  or  swayed  a  Congress.  For  all  the 
commanders  and  lawmakers  of  that  day  were  not 
confined  to  the  army  and  to  Congress.  Some  of 
them  escaped  to  the  West  and  became  sovereigns 
of  service  there.  And  Jondo  had  need  for  an 
intrepid  spirit  to  rule  that  group  of  men,  as  that 
journey  across  the  plains  proved. 

On  the  day  before  we  left  Council  Grove  he  was 
sitting  with  the  heads  of  the  other  wagon-trains 

1 86 


"OUR    FRIENDS  — THE    ENEMY' 

under  a  big  oak-tree,  perfecting  final  plans  for  the 
journey. 

"Gail,  I  want  you  to  sign  some  papers  here," 
he  said.  "It  is  the  agreement  for  the  trip  among 
the  three  companies  owning  the  trains." 

I  read  aloud  the  contract  setting  forth  how  one 
Jean  Deau,  representing  Esmond  Clarenden,  of 
Kansas  City,  with  Smith  and  Davis,  representing 
two  other  companies  from  St.  Louis,  together 
agreed  to  certain  conditions  regarding  the  journey. 

Smith  and  Davis  had  already  signed,  and  as  I 
took  the  pen,  a  white-haired  old  trapper  who  was 
sitting  near  by  burst  out : 

"Jean  Deau!  Jean  Deau!  Who  the  devil  is 
Jean  Deau?" 

Jondo  did  not  look  up,  but  the  lines  hardened 
about  his  mouth. 

"It's  a  sound.  Don't  get  in  the  way,  old  man. 
Go  ahead,  Clarenden,"  Smith  commanded. 

Few  questions  were  asked  in  those  days,  for 
most  men  on  the  plains  had  a  history,  and  it  was 
what  a  man  could  do  here,  not  what  he  had  done 
somewhere  else,  that  counted. 

So  I,  representing  Esmond  Clarenden,  signed  the 
paper  and  the  two  managers  hurried  away.  But 
the  old  trapper  sat  staring  at  Jondo. 

"Say,  I'm  gittin'  close  to  the  end  of  the  trail, 
and  the  divide  ain't  fur  off  for  me.  D'ye  mind  if  I 
say  somethin'  ?"  he  asked  at  last. 

Jondo  looked  up  with  that  smile  that  could 
warm  any  man's  heart. 

"Say  on,"  he  commanded,  kindly. 
187 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"You  aint  never  signin'  your  own  name  no- 
where, it  sorter  seems." 

Jondo  shook  his  head. 

"Didn't  you  and  this  Clarenden  outfit  go 
through  here  'bout  ten  years  ago  one  night? 
Some  Mexican  greasers  was  raisin'  hell  and  prop- 
pin'  it  up  with  a  whisky-bottle  that  night,  layin' 
fur  you  vicious." 

Jondo  smiled  and  nodded  assent. 

"Well,  them  fellers  comin'  in  had  a  bargain 
with  a  passel  of  Kioways  to  git  you  plenty  if  they 
missed  you  themselves;  to  clinch  their  bargain 
they  give  'em  a  pore  little  Hopi  Injun  girl  they'd 
brung  along  with  a  lot  of  other  Mexicans  and 
squaws." 

"I  had  that  figured  out  pretty  well  at  the  time," 
Jondo  said,  with  a  smile. 

"But,  Jean  Deau — "  the  old  man  began. 

"No,  Jondo.  Go  on.  I'm  busy,"  Jondo  inter- 
rupted. 

The  old  man's  watery  eyes  gleamed. 

"I  just  want  to  say  friendly-like,  that  them 
Kioways  never  forgot  the  trick  you  worked  on 
'em,  an'  the  tornydo  that  busted  'em  at  Pawnee 
Rock  they  laid  to  your  bad  medicine.  They  went 
clare  back  to  Bent's  Fort  to  fix  you.  Them  and 
that  rovin'  bunch  of  Mexicans  that  scattered 
along  the  trail  with  'em  in  time  of  the  Mexican 
War.  They'd  'a'  lost  you  but  fur  a  little  Apache 
cuss  they  struck  out  there  who  showed  'em  to 
you." 

Jondo  looked  up  quickly  now.  Santan,  Bever- 
188 


'OUR    FRIENDS  — THE    ENEMY' 

ly's  "  Satan,"  whom  our  captain  had  defended, 
flashed  to  my  mind,  but  I  knew  by  Jondo's  face 
that  he  did  not  believe  the  old  trapper's  story. 

"Them  Kioways  is  still  layin'  fur  you  ever' 
year,  I  tell  you,  an'  they're  bound  to  git  you 
sooner  or  later.  I'm  tellin'  ye  in  kindness." 

The  old  man's  voice  weakened  a  little. 

"And  I'm  taking  you  in  kindness,"  Jondo  said. 
"You  may  be  doing  me  a  great  service." 

"I  shore  am.  Take  my  word  an'  keep  awake. 
Keep  awake!" 

In  spite  of  his  drink-bleared  eyes  and  weakened 
frame,  there  was  a  hint  of  the  commander  in  him, 
a  mere  shadow  of  the  energy  that  had  gone  years 
ago  into  the  wild,  solitary  life  of  the  trapper  who 
foreran  the  trail  days  here. 

"One  more  trip  to  the  ha'nts  of  the  fur-bearin' 
and  it's  good-by  to  the  mountain  trails  and  the 
river  courses  fur  me,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  and 
stalked  unsteadily  away,  and — I  never  saw  him 
again. 

At  daybreak  the  next  morning  we  were  off  for 
Santa  Fe.  Our  wagons,  loaded  with  their  precious 
burdens,  moved  forward  six  abreast  along  the  old 
sun-flower  bordered  trail.  Morning,  noon,  and 
evening,  pitching  camp  and  breaking  camp, 
yoking  oxen  and  harnessing  mules,  keeping  night 
vigil  by  shifts,  hunting  buffalo,  killing  rattle- 
snakes, watching  for  signs  of  hostile  Indians,  meet- 
ing incoming  trains,  or  solitary  trappers,  at  long 
intervals,  breathing  the  sweet  air  of  the  prairies, 
and  gathering  rugged  strength  from  sleep  on  the 

189 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

wholesome  earth — these  things,  with  the  jolliest 
of  fellowship  and  perfect  discipline  of  our  captain, 
Jondo,  made  this  hard,  free  life  of  the  plains  a 
fascinating  one.  We  were  unshaven  and  brown  as 
Indians.  We  lost  every  ounce  of  fat,  but  we  were 
steel-sinewed,  and  fear,  that  wearing  element 
that  disintegrates  the  soul,  dropped  away  from  us 
early  on  the  trail. 

But  when  the  full  moon  came  sweeping  up  the 
sky,  and  all  the  prairie  shadows  lay  flat  to  earth 
under  its  surge  of  clear  light,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
great  lonely  land,  then  the  battle  with  home- 
sickness was  not  the  least  of  the  plains'  perils. 

One  midnight  watch  of  such  a  night,  Jondo  sat 
out  my  vigil  with  me.  Our  eighty  or  more  wagons 
were  drawn  up  in  a  rude  ellipse  with  the  stock  cor- 
raled  inside,  for  we  were  nearing  the  danger  zone. 
And  yet  to-night  danger  seemed  impossible  in  such 
a  peaceful  land  under  such  clear  moonlight. 

"Gail,  you  were  always  a  far-seeing  youngster, 
even  in  your  cub  days,"  Jondo  said,  after  we  had 
sat  silent  for  a  long  time.  "We  are  moving  into 
trouble  from  to-night,  and  I'll  need  you  now." 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Jondo?"  I  asked. 

"That  train  we  met  going  east  at  noon." 

"Mexicans  with  silver  and  skins  worth  double 
our  stuff,  what  have  they  to  do  with  us?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"One  of  the  best  men  I  have  ever  known  is  a 
Mexican  in  Santa  Fe.  The  worst  man  I  have 
ever  known  is  an  American  there.  But  I've 
never  yet  trusted  a  Mexican  when  you  bunch 

190 


"OUR   FRIENDS  — THE   ENEMY' 

them  together.  They  don't  fit  into  American 
harness,  and  it  will  be  a  hundred  years  before  the 
Mexican  in  our  country  will  really  love  the  Stars 
and  Stripes.  Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  will  hate 
it." 

"I  remember  Felix  Narveo  and  Ferdinand 
Ramero  mighty  well,"  I  commented. 

Jondo  stared  at  me. 

"Can't  a  boy  remember  things?"  I  inquired. 

"It  takes  a  boy  to  remember;  and  they  grow  up 
and  we  forget  they  have  had  eyes,  ears,  feelings, 
memories,  all  keener  than  we  can  ever  have  in 
later  years.  Gail,  the  Mexican  train  comes  from 
Felix  Narveo,  and  Narveo  is  a  man  of  a  thousand. 
They  bring  word,  however,  that  the  Kiowas  are 
unusually  friendly  and  that  we  have  nothing  to 
fear  this  side  of  the  Cimarron.  They  don't  feel 
sure  of  the  Utes  and  Apaches." 

' '  Good  enough !' '  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  only  they  lie  when  they  say  it.  It's  a  trap 
to  get  us.  No  Kiowa  on  the  plains  will  let  a  Claren- 
den  train  through  peacefully,  because  we  took  their 
captive,  Little  Blue  Flower.  It's  a  hatred  kept 
alive  in  the  Kiowas  by  one  man  in  Santa  Fe 
through  his  Mexican  agents  with  Narveo's  train  " 

"And  that  man  is  Ramero?"  I  questioned. 

"That  man  is  Ramero,  and  his  capacity  for  hate 
is  appalling.  Gail,  there's  only  one  thing  in  the 
world  that  is  stronger  than  hate,  and  that  is  love." 

Jondo  looked  out  over  the  moonlit  plains,  his 
fine  head  erect,  even  in  his  meditative  moods. 

"When  a  Mexican  says  a  Kiowa  has  turned 
191 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

friendly,  don't  believe  him.  And  when  a  Kiowa 
says  it  himself — kill  him.  It's  your  only  safe 
course,"  Jondo  said,  presently. 

"Jondo,  why  does  Ramero  stir  up  the  Indians 
and  Mexicans  against  Uncle  Esmond?"  I  asked. 

"Because  Clarenden  drove  him  into  exile  in 
New  Mexico  before  it  was  United  States  terri- 
tory," Jondo  replied. 

"What  did  he  do  that  for?"  I  asked. 

"Because  of  what  Ramero  had  done  to  me," 
Jondo  replied. 

"Well,  New  Mexico  is  United  States  territory 
now.  What  keeps  this  Ramero  in  Santa  Fe,  if  he 
is  there?" 

"I  keep  him  there.  It's  safer  to  know  just 
where  a  man  like  that  is.  So  I  put  a  ring  around 
the  town  and  left  him  inside  of  it." 

Jondo  paused  and  turned  toward  me. 

"Yonder  comes  Banney  to  go  on  guard  now. 
Gail,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  day.  I  couldn't 
on  a  night  like  this." 

The  deep  voice  sent  a  shiver  through  me.  There 
was  a  pathos  in  it,  too  manly  for  tears,  too  cour- 
ageous for  pity. 

The  days  that  followed  were  hard  ones.  Word 
had  gotten  through  the  camp  that  the  Indians 
were  very  friendly,  and  that  we  need  not  be  uneasy 
this  side  of  the  Cimarron  country.  Smith  and 
Davis  agreed  with  the  train  captain,  Jondo,  in 
taking  no  chances,  but  most  of  the  one  hundred 
sixty  bull-whackers  stampeded  like  cattle  against 
precaution,  and  rebelled  at  his  rigid  ruling.  He 

192 


"OUR    FRIENDS  — THE    ENEMY' 

had  begun  to  tighten  down  upon  us  as  we  went 
farther  and  farther  into  the  heart  of  a  savage 
domain.  The  night  guard  was  doubled  and 
every  precaution  for  the  stock  was  demanded, 
giving  added  cause  for  grumbling  and  muttered 
threats  which  no  man  had  the  courage  to  speak 
openly  to  Jon  do's  face.  I  knew  why  he  had  said 
that  he  would  need  me.  Bill  Banney  was  always 
reliable,  but  growing  more  silent  and  unapproach- 
able  every  day.  Rex  Krane's  mind  was  on  the 
girl-wife  he  had  left  in  the  stone  house  on  the  bluff 
above  the  Missouri.  Beverly  was  too  cock- 
sure of  himself  and  too  light-hearted,  too  eager  for 
an  Indian  fight.  Jondo  could  counsel  with  Smith 
and  Davis  of  the  St.  Louis  trains,  but  only  as  a 
last  resort  would  he  dictate  to  them.  So  he  turned 
to  me. 

We  were  nearing  Pawnee  Rock,  but  as  yet  no 
hint  of  an  Indian  trail  could  we  find  anywhere. 
Advance-guards  and  rear-guards  had  no  news  to 
report  when  night  came,  and  the  sense  of  security 
grew  hourly.  The  day  had  been  very  warm,  but 
our  nooning  was  shortened  and  we  went  into  camp 
early.  Everything  had  gone  wrong  that  day: 
harness  had  broken;  mules  had  grown  fractious; 
a  wagon  had  upset  on  a  rough  bit  of  the  trail ;  half 
a  dozen  men,  including  Smith  and  Davis  of  the 
St.  Louis  trains,  had  fallen  suddenly  ill;  drinking- 
water  had  been  warm  and  muddy;  and,  most  of 
all,  the  consciousness  of  wide-spread  opposition 
to  Jondo' s  strict  ruling  where  there  were  no  signs 
of  danger  made  a  very  ugly-spirited  group  of  men 

193 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

who  sat  down  together  to  eat  our  evening  meal. 
Bets  were  openly  made  that  we  wouldn't  see  a 
hostile  redskin  this  side  of  Santa  Fe.  Covert 
sneers  pointed  many  comments,  and  grim  silence 
threatened  more  than  everything  else.  Jondo's 
face  was  set,  but  there  was  a  calmness  about  his 
words  and  actions,  and  even  the  most  rebellious 
that  night  knew  he  was  least  afraid  of  any  man 
among  us. 

At  midnight  he  wakened  me.  "I  want  you  to 
help  me,  Gail,"  he  said.  "The  Kiowas  will  gather 
for  us  at  Pawnee  Rock.  They  missed  us  there 
once  because  they  were  looking  for  a  big  train,  and 
it  was  there  we  took  their  captive  girl.  The  boys 
are  ready  to  mutiny  to-night.  I  count  on  you  to 
stand  by  me." 

Stand  by  Jondo !  In  my  helpless  babyhood,  my 
orphaned  childhood,  my  sturdy  growing  years 
toward  young  manhood,  Jondo  had  been  father, 
mother,  brother,  playmate,  guardian  angel.  I 
would  have  walked  on  red-hot  coals  for  his  sake. 

"I  want  you  to  slip  away  to-night,  when  Rex 
and  Bev  are  on  guard,  and  find  out  what's  over 
that  ridge  to  the  north.  Don't  come  back  till  you 
do  find  out.  We'll  get  to  Pawnee  Rock  to-morrow. 
I  must  know  to-night.  Can  you  do  it?  If  you 
aren't  back  by  sunrise,  I'll  follow  your  trail  double 
quick." 

"I'll  go,"  I  replied,  proud  to  show  both  my 
courage  and  my  loyalty  to  my  captain. 

The  night  was  gray,  with  a  dying  moon  in  the 
west,  and  the  north  ridge  loomed  like  a  low  black 

194 


"OUR    FRIENDS  — THE    ENEMY' 

shadow  against  the  sky.  There  was  a  weird 
chanting  voice  in  the  night  wind,  pouring  endlessly 
across  the  open  plains.  And  everywhere  an  eyeless, 
voiceless,  motionless  land,  whereon  my  pony's  hoof- 
beats  were  big  and  booming.  Nature  made  my 
eyes  and  ears  for  the  trail  life,  and  matched  my 
soul  to  its  level  spaces.  To-night  I  was  alert 
with  that  love  of  mastery  that  made  me  eager 
for  this  task.  So  I  rode  forward  until  our  great 
camp  was  only  a  dull  blot  on  the  horizon-line, 
melting  into  mere  nothingness  as  it  grew  farther 
away.  And  I  was  alone  on  the  earth.  God  had 
taken  out  every  other  thing  in  it,  save  the  sky 
over  my  head  and  the  uneven  short-grass  sod 
under  my  feet. 

On  I  went,  veering  to  the  northwest  from  in- 
stinct that  I  should  find  my  journey's  end  soonest 
that  way.  Over  the  divide  which  hid  the  wide 
valley  of  the  Arkansas,  and  into  the  deep  draws 
and  low  bluffs  of  a  creek  with  billowy  hills  beyond, 
I  found  myself  still  instinctively  smelling  my  way. 
I  grew  more  cautious  with  each  step  now,  knowing 
that  the  chance  for  me  to  slip  along  unseen  gave 
also  the  chance  for  an  enemy  to  trail  me  unseen. 

At  last  I  caught  that  low  breathing  sound  that 
goes  with  the  sense  of  nearness  to  life.  Leaving 
my  pony  by  the  stream,  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  a 
little  swell,  and  softly  as  a  cat  walks  on  a  carpet,  I 
walked  straight  into  an  Indian  camp.  It  was  well 
chosen  for  outlook  near,  and  security  from  afar. 
There  was  a  growing  light  in  the  sky  that  follows 
the  darkness  of  moonset  and  runs  before  the 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

break  of  dawn.  Everything  in  the  camp  was  dead 
still.  I  saw  evidences  of  war-paint  and  a  recent 
war-dance  that  forerun  an  Indian  attack.  I  esti- 
mated the  strength  of  the  enemy — possibly  four 
hundred  warriors,  and  noted  the  symbols  of  the 
Kiowa  tribe.  Then,  thrilled  with  pride  at  my  skill 
and  success,  I  turned  to  retrace  my  way  to  my 
pony — and  looked  full  into  the  face  of  an  Indian 
brave  standing  motionless  in  my  path.  A  breath 
— and  two  more  braves  evolved  out  of  gray  air,  and 
the  three  stood  stock-still  before  me.  Out  of  the 
tail  of  my  eye,  I  caught  sight  of  a  drawn  bow  on 
either  side  of  me.  I  had  learned  quickness  with 
firearms  years  ago,  but  I  knew  that  two  swift 
arrows  would  cut  my  life-line  before  the  sound  of 
my  ready  revolver  could  break  the  stillness  of  the 
'camp.  Three  pairs  of  snaky  black  eyes  looked 
steadily  at  me,  and  I  stared  back  as  directly  into 
them.  Two  arrow-points  gently  touched  my  ears. 
Behind  me,  a  tomahawk  softly  marked  a  ring 
around  my  scalp  outside  of  my  hat.  I  was  stand- 
ing in  a  circle  of  death.  At  last  the  brave  directly 
before  me  slowly  drew  up  his  bow  and  pointed  it  at 
me;  then  dropping  it,  he  snapped  the  arrow  shaft 
and  threw  away  the  pieces.  Pointing  to  my 
cocked  revolver,  he  motioned  to  me  to  drop  it. 
At  the  same  time  the  bows  and  tomahawks,  of  the 
other  warriors  were  thrown  down.  It  was  a 
silent  game,  and  in  spite  of  the  danger  I  smiled  as 
I  put  down  my  firearms. 

"Can't  any  of  you  talk?"  I  asked.     "If  you  are 
friendly,  why  don't  you  say  so?" 

196 


"OUR    FRIENDS  — THE    ENEMY' 

The  men  did  not  speak,  but  by  a  gesture  toward 
the  tallest  tepee — the  chief's,  I  supposed — I  under- 
stood that  he  alone  would  talk  to  me. 

"Well,  bring  him  out."  I  surprised  myself  at 
my  boldness.  Yet  no  man  knows  in  just  what 
spirit  he  will  face  a  peril. 

One  of  the  braves  ran  to  the  chief's  tent,  but  the 
remaining  five  left  me  no  chance  for  escape.  It 
was  slowly  growing  lighter.  I  thought  of  Jondo 
and  his  search  at  sunrise,  and  the  moments  seemed 
like  hours.  Yet  with  marvelous  swiftness  and 
stillness  a  score  of  Indians  with  their  chief  were 
mounted,  and  I,  with  my  pony  in  the  center  of  a 
solid  ring,  was  being  hurried  away,  alive,  with 
friendly  captors  daubed  with  war-paint. 

There  was  a  growing  light  in  the  east,  while  the 
west  was  still  dark.  I  thought  of  the  earth  as 
throwing  back  the  gray  shadowy  covers  from  its 
morning  face  and  piling  them  about  its  feet;  I 
thought  of  some  joke  of  Beverly's;  and  I  won- 
dered about  one  of  the  oxen  that  had  seemed  sick 
in  the  evening.  I  tried  to  think  of  nothing  and  a 
thousand  things  came  into  my  mind.  But  of  life 
and  death  and  love  and  suffering,  I  thought  not 
at  all. 

Meantime,  Jondo  waited  anxiously  for  my  com- 
ing. Rex  and  Beverly  had  gone  to  sleep  at  the 
end  of  their  watch  and  nobody  else  in  camp  knew 
of  my  going.  At  dawn  a  breeze  began  to  swing  in 
from  the  north,  and  with  its  refreshing  touch  the 
weariness  and  worries  of  yesterday  were  swept 
away.  Everybody  wakened  in  a  good  humor. 

197 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

But  Jondo  had  not  slept,  and  his  face  was  sterner 
than  ever  as  the  duties  of  the  day  began. 

Before  sunrise  I  began  to  be  missed. 

"Where's  Gail?"  Bill  Banney  was  the  first  to 
ask. 

"That's  Clarenden's  job,  not  mine,"  another 
of  the  bull-whackers  resented  a  command  of 
Jondo' s. 

"Gail!  Gail!  Anybody  on  earth  seen  Gail 
Clarenden  this  morning?"  came  from  a  far  corner 
of  the  camp. 

"Have  you  lost  a  man,  Jondo?"  Smith,  still 
sick  in  his  wagon,  inquired. 

And  the  sun  was  filling  the  eastern  horizon  with 
a  roseate  glow.  It  would  be  above  the  edge  of 
the  plains  in  a  little  while,  and  still  I  had  not 
returned. 

Breakfast  followed,  with  many  questions  for  the 
absent  one.  There  was  an  eagerness  to  be  off 
early  and  an  uneasiness  began  to  pervade  the 
camp. 

"Jondo,  you'll  have  to  dig  up  Gail  now.  I  saw 
him  putting  out  northwest  about  one  o'clock," 
Rex  Krane  said,  aside  to  the  train  captain. 

"If  he  isn't  here  in  ten  minutes.  I'll  have  to  start 
out  after  him,"  Jondo  replied. 

Ten  minutes  are  long  to  one  who  waits.  The 
boys  were  ready  for  the  camp  order. "Catch  up!" 
to  start  the  harnessing  of  teams.  But  it  was  not 
given.  The  sun's  level  rays,  hot  and  yellow, 
smote  the  camp,  and  a  low  murmur  ran  from 
wagon  to  wagon.  Jondo  waited  a  minute  longer, 

198 


"OUR    FRIENDS  — THE   ENEMY' 

then  he  climbed  to  the  wagon  tongue  at  the  head 
of  the  ellipse  of  vehicles,  his  commanding  form 
outlined  against  the  open  space,  his  fine  face 
illumined  by  the  sunlight. 

"Boys,  listen  to  me." 

Men  listened  when  Jondo  spoke. 

"I  believe  we  are  in  danger,  but  you  have 
doubted  my  word.  I  leave  the  days  to  prove  who 
is  right.  At  midnight  I  sent  Gail  Clarenden  to 
find  out  what  is  beyond  that  ridge — a  band  of  men 
running  parallel  with  us  that  shadows  us  day  by 
day.  If  he  is  not  here  in  ten  minutes,  we  must  go 
after  him." 

A  hush  fell  on  the  camp.  The  oxen  switched  at 
the  first  nipping  insects  of  the  morning,  and  the 
ponies  and  mules,  with  that  horse-sense  that  all 
horsemen  have  observed  in  them  at  times,  stood  as 
if  waiting  for  a  decision  to  be  made. 

Beverly  Clarenden  was  first  to  speak. 

"If  anybody  goes  after  Gail,  it's  me,  and  I'll 
not  stop  till  I  get  him,"  he  cried,  all  the  brotherly 
love  of  a  lifetime  in  his  ringing  voice. 

"And  me!"  "And  me!"  And  me!"  came  from  a 
dozen  throats.  Plainsmen  were  always  the  truest 
of  comrades  in  the  hour  of  danger.  Nobody 
questioned  Jondo' s  wisdom  now.  All  thought 
was  for  the  missing  man. 

Rex  Krane  had  leaped  up  on  the  wagon  next 
to  Jondo's  and  stood  gazing  toward  the  northwest. 
At  this  outburst  of  eagerness  he  turned  to  the 
crowd  in  the  corral. 

"You  wait  five  minutes  and  Gail  will  be  here. 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

He's  gettin'  into  sight  out  yonder  now,"  he  de- 
clared. 

Another  shout,  a  rush  for  the  open,  and  a 
straining  of  eyes  to  make  sure  of  the  lone  rider 
coming  swiftly  down  the  trail  I  had  followed  out  at 
midnight.  And  amid  a  wild  swinging  of  hats  and 
whoops  of  joy  I  rode  into  camp,  hugged  by  Bever- 
ly and  questioned  by  everybody,  eager  for  my 
story  from  the  time  I  left  the  camp  until  I  rode 
into  it  again. 

"They  took  me  to  Pawnee  Rock  before  they  let 
me  know  anything,  except  that  my  scalp  would 
hang  to  the  old  chief's  war- spear  if  I  tried  one  eye- 
wink  to  get  away  from  them.  But  they  let  me 
keep  my  gun,  and  I  took  it  for  a  sign,"  I  told  the 
company.  "They  had  a  lot  of  ceremony  getting 
seated,  and  then,  without  any  smoking-tobacco  or 
peace-pipe,  they  gave  their  message." 

"Who  said  the  Kiowas  wasn't  friendly?  They 
already  sent  us  word  enough,"  one  man  broke  in. 

Jondo's  face,  that  had  been  bright  and  hopeful, 
now  grew  grave. 

"They  said  they  mean  us  no  harm.  They  were 
grateful  to  Uncle  Sam  for  the  favors  he  had  given 
them.  That  the  prairies  were  wide,  and  there  was 
room  for  all  of  us  on  it,"  I  continued.  "In  proof, 
they  said  that  we  would  pass  that  old  rock  to-day 
unharmed  where  once  they  would  have  counted  us 
their  enemies.  And  they  let  me  go  to  bring  you 
all  this  word.  They  are  going  northeast  into  the 
big  hunting-ground,  and  we  are  safe." 

No  man  could  take  defeat  better  than  Jondo. 
200 


"OUR    FRIENDS— THE    ENEMY' 

"I  am  glad  if  I  was  wrong  in  my  opinion,"  he 
said.  "Fifteen  years  on  that  trail  have  made  me 
cautious.  I  shall  still  be  cautious  if  I  am  your 
captain.  They  did  not  smoke  the  peace-pipe.  In 
my  judgment  the  Kiowas  lied.  Two  or  three 
days  will  prove  it.  Choose  now  between  me  and 
my  unchanged  opinion,  and  some  new  train  cap- 
tain." 

"Oh,  every  man  makes  some  bad  guesses, 
Jondo.  We'll  keep  you,  of  course,  and  it's  a  joke 
on  you,  that's  all."  So  ran  the  comment,  and  we 
hurriedly  broke  camp  and  moved  on. 

But  with  all  of  our  captain's  anxiety  Pawnee 
Rock  stood  like  a  protecting  shield  above  us  when 
we  camped  at  its  base,  and  the  long  bright  days 
that  followed  were  full  of  a  sense  of  security  and 
good  cheer  as  we  pulled  away  for  the  Cimarron 
crossing  of  the  Arkansas  River,  miles  ahead. 

All  day  Jondo  rode  wide  of  the  trail,  sometimes 
on  one  side  and  sometimes  on  the  other,  watching 
for  signs  of  an  enemy.  And  the  bluff,  jovial  crowd 
of  bull-whackers  laughed  together  at  his  holding 
on  to  his  opinion  out  of  sheer  stubbornness. 

On  the  second  night  he  asked  for  a  triple  guard 
and  nobody  grumbled,  for  everybody  really  liked 
the  big  plainsman  and  they  could  afford  to  be 
good-natured  with  him,  now  that  he  was  unques- 
tioningly  in  the  wrong. 

The  camp  was  in  a  little  draw  running  down  to 
the  river,  bordered  by  a  mere  ripple  of  ground  on 
either  side,  growing  deeper  as  it  neared  the  stream 
and  flattening  out  toward  the  level  prairie  in  its 

201 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

upper  portion.  In  spite  of  the  triple  guard,  Jondo 
did  not  sleep  that  night;  and,  strangely  enough,  I, 
who  had  been  dull  to  fear  in  the  hands  of  the 
Indians  two  nights  before,  felt  nervous  and  anx- 
ious, now  when  all  seemed  secure. 

Just  at  daybreak  a  light  shower  with  big  bullet- 
like  drops  of  rain  pattered  down  noisily  on  our 
camp  and  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning  and  a  thun- 
derbolt startled  the  sleepy  stock  and  brought  us 
to  our  feet,  dazed  for  an  instant.  Another  light 
volley  of  rain,  another  sheet  of  lightning  and  roar 
of  thunder,  and  the  cloud  was  gone,  scattering 
down  the  Arkansas  Valley.  But  in  that  flash  all 
of  Jondo's  cause  for  anxiety  was  justified.  The 
widening  draw  was  full  of  KiowTas,  hideous  in  war- 
paint, and  the  ridges  on  either  side  of  us  were 
swarming  with  Indians  beating  dried  skins  to 
frighten  and  stampede  our  stock,  and  all  yelling 
like  fiends,  while  a  perfect  rain  of  arrows  swept  our 
camp.  With  the  river  below  us  full  of  holes  and 
quicksands,  our  enemies  had  only  to  hold  the 
natural  defense  on  either  side  while  they  drove  us 
in  a  harrowing  wedge  back  to  the  water.  If  our 
ponies  and  mules  should  break  from  the  corral  they 
would  rush  for  the  river  or  be  lost  in  the  widening 
space  back  from  the  deeper  draw,  where  a  well- 
trained  corps  of  thieves  knew  how  to  capture  them. 
I  had  estimated  the  Kiowas'  strength  at  four 
hundred,  two  nights  before,  which  was  augmented 
now  by  a  roving  band  of  Dog  Indians — outcasts 
from  all  tribes,  who  knew  no  law  of  heaven  or  hell 
that  they  must  obey.  And  so  we  stood,  shocked 

202 


"OUR    FRIENDS  — THE    ENEMY' 

wide  awake,  with  the  foe  four  to  one,  man  for  man 
against  us. 

Men  remember  details  acutely  in  the  face  of 
danger.  As  I  write  these  words  I  can  hear  the 
sound  of  Jondo's  voice  that  morning,  clear  and 
strong  above  the  awful  din,  for  nature  made  him 
to  command  in  moments  of  peril.  In  a  flash  we 
were  marshalled,  one  force  to  guard  the  corral,  one 
to  seize  and  hold  either  bank  and  one  to  charge  on 
the  advance  of  the  Indians  down  the  draw.  We 
were  on  the  defensive,  as  our  captain  had  planned 
we  should  be,  and  every  man  of  us  realized  bit- 
terly now  how  much  he  had  done  for  us,  in  spite 
of  our  distrust  of  his  judgment. 

On  came  the  yelling  horde,  with  rifle-rip  and 
singing  arrow.  And  the  sharp  cry  of  pain  and  the 
fierce  oath  told  where  these  shots  had  sped  home. 
Four  to  one,  with  every  advantage  of  well-laid 
plan  of  action  against  an  unsuspecting  sleeping 
force,  the  odds  and  gods  were  with  them.  Dark 
clouds  hung  overhead,  but  the  eastern  sky  was 
aflame,  casting  a  lurid  glare  across  the  edges  of  the 
draw  as  a  stream  of  savages  with  painted  faces  and 
naked  bedaubed  bodies  poured  down  against  the 
corral.  In  an  instant  the  chains  and  ropes  holding 
the  stock  were  severed,  and  our  mules  and  oxen 
and  ponies  stampeded  wildly.  By  some  adroit 
movement  they  were  herded  over  the  low  bank, 
and  a  cloud  of  dust  hid  the  entire  battleground 
as  the  animals,  mad  with  fright  and  goaded  by 
arrows,  tossed  against  one  another,  stumbled 
blindly  until  they  had  cleared  the  ridge.  A 

203 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

shriek  of  savage  glee  and  the  thunder  of  hoofs 
on  the  hard  earth  told  how  well  the  thing  had 
been  done  and  how  furiously  our  animals  were 
being  whirled  away. 

"Go,  get  'em,  Gail!  Stay  by  'em!  Run!" 
Jondo's  voice  sounded  far  away,  but  my  work 
was  near.  With  a  dozen  bull-whackers  I  made  a 
dash  out  of  the  draw  and,  circling  wide,  we  rode  like 
demons  to  outflank  the  cloud  of  dust  that  hid  our 
precious  property.  On  we  swept,  fleet  and  sure, 
in  a  mad  burst  of  speed  to  save  our  own.  We  were 
gaining  now,  and  turning  the  cloud  toward  the 
river.  Another  spurt,  and  we  would  have  them 
checked,  faced  about,  subdued.  I  saw  the  end, 
and  as  the  boys  swung  forward  I  urged  them  on. 

"To    the    river.     To    the    river.     Head    'em 
south!"  I  cried. 

And  Rex  Krane,  like  a  centaur,  swirled  by  me 
to  do  the  thing  I  ordered.  Behind  me  rode  Bev- 
erly Clarenden  bareheaded,  his  face  aglow  with 
power.  As  I  looked  back  the  dust  engulfed  him 
for  a  moment,  and  then  I  heard  an  arrow  sing,  and 
a  sharp  cry  of  pain.  The  dust  had  lifted  and 
Beverly  and  a  huge  Indian,  the  tallest  I  have  ever 
seen,  were  grappling  together,  a  scalping-knife 
gleaming  in  the  morning  light.  I  dashed  for- 
ward and  felled  the  savage  with  the  butt  of  my 
revolver.  He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  sprang  at 
me  just  as  Beverly,  with  unerring  aim,  sent  a 
blaze  of  fire  between  us.  As  the  savage  fell  again, 
my  cousin  seized  his  pony;  and  with  an  arrow 
still  swinging  to  his  arm,  dashed  into  the  chase, 

204 


"OUR    FRIENDS— THE    ENEMY' 

and  left  it  only  when  the  stock,  with  the  loss  of 
less  than  a  fourth,  was  driven  up  the  river's  sandy 
bank  and  over  the  swell  into  the  camp  inclosure. 

Meantime,  Jondo  at  the  front  of  his  men  charged 
into  the  very  center  of  the  savage  battle-line  as, 
furious  for  blood,  they  threshed  across  the  narrow 
draw — the  disciplined  arm  and  courageous  heart 
against  a  blood-thirsty  foe.  A  charge,  a  falling 
back,  another  surge  to  win  the  lost  ground,  a 
steady  holding  on  and  sure  advance,  and  then 
Jondo,  with  one  triumphant  shout  of  victory, 
struck  the  last  fierce  blow  that  sent  the  Kiowas 
into  full  flight  toward  the  northwest,  and  the  day 
was  won. 

Out  by  the  river,  a  sudden  dullness  seized  me. 
I  lifted  my  eyes  to  see  Beverly  free  and  Rex 
directing  the  charge;  cattle,  mules,  and  ponies 
turned  back  toward  safety,  and  something 
crawling  and  writhing  about  my  feet;  Jondo' s 
great  shout  of  victory  far  away,  it  seemed,  miles 
and  miles  to  the  north;  a  cloud  of  dust  sweeping 
toward  me;  the  crimson  east  aflame  like  *the 
Day  of  Judgment;  the  dust  cloud  rolling  nearer; 
the  yellow  sands  and  slow-moving  waters  of  the 
Arkansas;  and  six  silent  stalwart  Kiowa  braves, 
with  snaky  black  eyes,  looking  steadily  at  me. 
Shadows,  and  the  dust  cloud  upon  me.  Then  all 
was  night 


XII 

THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  THE  PLAINS 

Deeper  than  speech  our  love,  stronger  than  life  our  tether, 
But  we  do  not  fall  on  the  neck,  nor  kiss  when  we  come  together. 

— "A  SONG  OF  THE  ENGLISH." 

THE  whole  thing  was  clear  now,  clear  as  the 
big  white  day  that  suddenly  beamed  along 
the  prairies,  scattering  the  clouds  into  gray  strands 
against  the  upper  heavens.  The  treachery  of  the 
Kiowas  had  been  cleverly  executed.  Word  of 
their  friendliness  had  come  to  us  through  the 
Mexican  caravan  which  could  have  no  object  in 
deceiving  us,  since  it  was  on  its  way  to  Kansas 
City  to  do  business  with  the  Clarenden  house 
there.  And  Jondo  had  sent  a  spy  by  night  into 
the  Kiowa  camp  as  if  they  were  not  to  be  trusted. 
Yet  they  had  taken  no  offense;  but,  letting  me 
keep  my  firearms,  had  led  me  into  their  council  on 
the  top  of  Pawnee  Rock,  where  they  had  told  me  in 
clear  English  that  they  had  nothing  but  love  for 
the  white  brothers  of  the  plains.  And  to  prove  it 
we  should  pass  unharmed  along  the  trail  where 
once  we  had  wronged  them  by  stealing  their  cap- 
tive. The  prairies  were  wide  enough  for  all  of  us 

206 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

and  they  had  forgotten — as  an  Indian  always 
forgets — all  malice  against  us.  They  had  sent  me 
back  to  camp  with  greetings  to  my  captain,  and 
had  gone  on  their  way  to  the  heart  of  the  Grand 
Prairie  in  the  northeast. 

It  was  only  Jondo,  as  he  rode  wide  of  the  trail 
for  two  days,  who  could  see  any  mark  of  an  Indian's 
track.  And  we  had  not  believed  Jondo.  We 
never  made  that  mistake  again.  But  trust  in  his 
shrewdness  now,  however,  would  not  bring  back 
the  oxen  lost  and  the  mules  and  ponies  captured 
by  the  thieving  band  of  Dog  Indians.  But  there 
was  a  greater  loss  than  these.  The  Kiowas  had 
come  for  revenge.  It  was  blood,  not  plunder,  they 
wanted.  A  dozen  men  with  arrow  wounds  re- 
ported at  roll  call,  and  six  men  lay  stark  dead 
under  the  pitiless  sky.  Among  them  Davis  of 
the  St.  Louis  train,  who  had  been  too  ill  to  take 
part  in  the  struggle.  One  more  loss  was  there  to 
report,  but  it  was  not  discovered  until  later. 

Indians  seldom  leave  their  dead  on  the  field  of 
battle,  but  the  blood-stained  sod  beside  their 
fallen  ponies  told  a  story  of  heavy  toll.  Blood 
marked  the  trail  of  hoofprints  to  the  northwest 
in  their  wild  rout  thither.  One  comrade  they  had 
missed  in  their  flight.  He  lay  down  near  the  river 
where  the  ground  had  been  threshed  over  by  the 
stampeded  stock.  He  must  have  been  a  giant  in 
life,  for  his  was  the  longest  grave  made  in  the 
prairie  sod  that  day.  At  the  river's  edge  the  sands 
were  pricked  with  hoofprints,  where  the  struggle 
to  carry  away  the  dead  seemed  to  have  reached 

207 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

clear  into  the  thin  yellow  current  of  the  Arkansas, 
although  no  trail  led  out  on  the  far  side  of  the 
stream. 

"That's  the  very  copper  cuss  with  yellow  trim- 
mings who  had  me  down  when  that  arrow  stopped 
me,"  Beverly  exclaimed.  "He  was  seven  feet 
tall  and  streaked  with  yellow  just  that  way.  I 
thought  ten  million  rattlesnakes  and  eight  billion 
polecats  had  hit  me.  His  club  was  awful.  Then 
I  caught  sight  of  old  Gail's  face  in  the  dust-storm, 
coming  back  to  help  me.  He  gave  the  Indian  one 
dose  and  got  one  back,  a  good  hard  biff,  and  then 
the  dust  closed  in  and  Gail  was  off  again  to  the 
northwest  out  there,  like  a  hurricane.  I  could 
hear  him  a  mile  away.  Couldn't  I  Gail?  Where  is 
Gail?" 

Where? 

"Oh,  back  there  with  the  stock!" 

No? 

"Out  there  looking  over  the  draw  for  things 
that's  got  all  scattered." 

No?    Not  there? 

"Oh,  he's  getting  breakfast.  And  we  are  all 
hungry  enough  to  eat  raw  Kiowas  now." 

No?    No? 

"Gail  would  be  helping  the  wounded,  anyhow, 
or  straightening  out  dead  men's  limbs.  Poor  fel- 
lows— to  lose  six!  It's  awful!" 

No?     No?     No? 

"Bathing  in  the  river?  Where?  Over  there 
across  the  sand-bar?" 

Nowhere !     Nowhere ! 

208 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

"By  the  eternal  God,  they've  got  him!"  Jon- 
do's  agonized  voice  rang  through  the  camp. 

"We  can  take  care  of  the  wounded,  and  those 
fellows  lying  over  there  don't  need  us.  But,  oh, 
Gail!  They'll  torture  him  to  death!"  Rex 
Krane's  voice  choked  and  he  ground  his  teeth. 

"Gail,  my  Gail!"  Beverly  sat  down  white  and 
desparingly  calm — Beverly,  whose  up-bubbling 
spirits  nobody  could  repress. 

The  others  wrung  their  hands  and  cursed  and 
groaned  aloud.  Only  Bill  Banney,  the  unimagina- 
tive and  stern-hearted,  stood  motionless  with  set 
jaws  and  black-frowning  brows.  Bill,  whom  the 
plains  had  made  hard  and  unfeeling. 

"We  won't  give  up  Gail,  will  we,  Bill?"  Jondo 
spoke  sternly,  but  his  face — they  said  his  face 
was  bright  with  courage  and  that  his  eyes  shone 
with  the  inspiration  of  his  will.  In  all  that  crowd 
of  eager,  faithful  men,  he  turned  now  to  Bill 
Banney.  Every  man  had  his  place  on  the  plains, 
and  Jondo  out  of  the  chrism  of  his  own  life- 
struggle  knew  that  Bill  was  bearing  a  cross  in 
silence,  and  that  his  was  the  martyr  spirit  that 
finds  salvation  only  in  deeds.  Bill  was  the  man 
for  the  place. 

And  so  while  straying  animals  were  slowly 
recovered,  while  the  camp  was  set  in  order,  while 
the  dead  were  laid  with  simple  reverence  in  un- 
coffined  graves,  and  the  sick  were  crudely  min- 
istered to,  while  Beverly  grew  feverish  and  his 
arrow  wound  became  a  festering  sore,  and  Rex 
Krane,  master  of  the  company,  cared  for  every- 

209 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

thing  and  everybody  with  that  big  mother-heart 
of  his — Jondo  and  Bill  Banney  pushed  alone 
across  the  desolate  plains  toward  where  the 
Smoky  Hills  wrapped  in  their  dim  gray-blue  mist 
mark  the  low  watershed  that  rims  the  western 
valley  of  the  Kaw. 

They  went  alone  because  skill,  and  not  numbers, 
could  save  a  captive  from  the  hands  of  the  Kiowas, 
and  the  sight  of  a  force  would  mean  death  to  the 
victim  before  he  could  be  rescued. 

A  splash  of  water  against  a  hot  hand  hanging 
down;  a  sense  of  light,  of  motion;  a  glimpse  of 
coarse  sands  and  thin  straggling  weeds  beside  the 
edge  of  the  stream  down  which  the  pathway  ran ; 
a  sharp  aching  at  the  base  of  the  brain;  an  agony 
of  strained  muscles — thus  slowly  I  came  to  my 
senses,  to  memory,  to  the  knowledge  that  I  was 
bound  hand  and  foot  to  a  pony's  back;  that  the 
sun  was  hot,  and  the  sands  were  hotter,  and  the 
glare  on  the  waters  blinding;  that  every  splash  of 
the  pony's  hoofs  sent  up  glittering  sparkles  that 
stabbed  my  aching  eyes  like  white-hot  dagger- 
points;  that  the  black  and  clotted  dirt  on  the 
pony's  shoulder  was  not  mud,  but  blood;  that  be- 
fore and  behind  were  other  splashing  feet,  all 
hiding  the  trail  in  the  thin  current  of  the  wide  old 
Arkansas;  that  the  quick  turns  to  follow  the 
water  and  the  need  for  speed  gave  no  consideration 
to  the  helpless  rider.  The  image  of  six  pairs  of 
snaky  black  eyes  came  to  help  the  benumbed 
brain,  and  I  knew  with  whom  I  was  again  captive. 
But  there  was  no  question  about  the  friendly 

2IO 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

motive  now,  for  there  was  no  friendly  motive  now. 
And  as  we  pushed  on  east,  Jondo  and  Bill  Banney 
were  hurrying  toward  the  northwest,  and  the 
space  between  us  widened  every  minute.  A  wave 
of  helplessness  and  despair  swept  over  me;  then 
a  wild  upleaping  prayer  for  deliverance  to  a  far- 
away unpitying  Heaven;  a  sudden  sense  of  the 
futility  of  prayer  in  a  land  the  Lord  had  forgotten ; 
and  then  anger,  hot  and  wholesome,  and  an  un- 
conquered,  dominant  will  to  gain  freedom  or  to 
die  game,  swept  every  other  feeling  away,  marvel- 
ously  mastering  the  sense  of  pain  that  had  ground 
mercilessly  at  every  nerve.  Then  came  that  small 
voice  which  a  man  hears  sometimes  in  the  night 
stillness  and  sometimes  in  the  blare  of  daylight 
wrangle.  And  all  suddenly  I  knew  that  He  who 
notes  the  sparrow's  fall  knew  that  I  was  alone 
with  death,  slow-lingering,  inch-creeping  death, 
out  on  that  wide,  lonely  plain.  The  glare  on  the 
waters  softened.  The  heat  fell  away.  The  de- 
spair and  agony  lifted.  In  all  the  world — my 
world — there  was  only  one,  God;  not  a  far,  un- 
pitying, book-made  Lord  beyond  the  height 
of  the  glaring  blue  dome  above  me.  God  beside 
me  on  the  yellow  waters  of  the  Arkansas.  His 
hand  in  my  hot  hand!  His  strength  about  me, 
invisible,  unbreakable,  infinite.  When  a  man 
enters  into  that  shielding  Presence,  nothing  else 
matters. 

I  do  not  know  how  many  miles  we  went  down- 
stream, leaving  no  trail  in  the  shallow  water  or 
along  its  hard-baked  edges.  But  by  the  time  we 

211 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

dropped  that  line  I  had  begun  to  think  coherently 
and  to  take  note  of  everything  possible  to  me, 
bound  as  I  was,  face  downward,  on  the  pony's  back. 
It  was  when  we  had  left  the  river  that  the  hard 
riding  began,  and  a  merciful  unconsciousness, 
against  which  I  fought,  softened  some  stretches  of 
that  long  day's  journey.  We  crossed  the  Santa 
Fe  Trail  and  were  pushing  eastward  out  of  sight 
of  it  to  the  north.  No  stop,  no  word,  nothing 
but  ride,  ride,  ride.  Truly,  I  needed  the  Presence 
that  went  with  me  on  the  way. 

At  sunset  we  stopped,  and  I  was  taken  from  my 
pony  and  thrown  to  the  ground.  I  managed,  in 
spite  of  my  bonds,  to  sit  up  and  look  about  me. 

We  were  on  the  top  of  Pawnee  Rock.  The  heat 
of  the  day  was  spent  and  all  the  radiant  tints  of 
evening  were  making  the  silent  prairies  unspeak- 
ably beautiful.  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  have 
noted  or  remembered  any  of  this,  save  that  the 
mind  sometimes  gathers  impressions  under  strange 
stress  of  suffering.  I  had  had  no  food  all  day,  and 
when  our  ponies  stopped  to  drink,  the  agony  of 
thirst  was  maddening.  My  tongue  was  swollen 
and  my  lips  were  cracked  and  bleeding.  The 
leather  thongs  that  bound  me  cut  deep  now.  But 
— only  the  men  who  lived  it  can  know  what  all 
this  meant  to  the  pioneer  of  the  trail. 

I  have  sat  on  the  same  spot  at  sunset  many 
a  time  in  these  my  sunset  years;  have  gazed  in 
tranquil  joy  at  the  whole  panorama  of  the  heavens 
that  hang  over  the  prairies  in  the  opalescent 
splendor  of  the  after- sunset  hour;  have  looked 

212 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

out  over  the  earthly  paradise  of  waving  grain,  all 
glowing  with  the  golden  gleam  of  harvest,  in  the 
heart  of  the  rich  Kansas  wheat-lands — and  some- 
how I'm  glad  of  soul  that  I  foreran  this  day  and — 
maybe — maybe  I,  too,  helped  somewhat  to  build 
the  way — the  way  that  Esmond  Clarenden  had 
helped  to  clear  a  decade  before  and  was  building 
then. 

The  six  Indians  gathered  near  me.  One  of  them 
with  unmerciful  mercy  loosened  my  bonds  a  trifle 
and  gave  me  a  sup  of  water.  They  did  not  want 
me  to  die  too  soon.  Then  they  sat  down  to  eat  and 
drink.  I  did  not  shut  my  eyes,  nor  turn  my  head. 
I  defied  their  power  to  crush  me,  and  the  very  de- 
fiance gave  me  strength. 

The  chill  air  of  evening  blew  about  the  brow  of 
the  rock,  the  twilight  deepened,  and  down  in  the 
valley  the  shadows  were  beginning  to  hide  the 
landscape.  But  the  evening  hour  is  long  on  the 
headlands.  And  there  was  ample  time  for  another 
kind  of  council  than  that  to  which  I  had  listened 
three  mornings  ago,  when  I  had  been  set  free  to 
bear  a  friendly  message  to  my  chief. 

They  carried  me — helpless  in  their  hands — to 
where,  unseen  myself,  and  secured  by  rock  frag- 
ment and  rawhide  thong,  I  could  see  far  up  the 
trail  to  the  eastward.  But  I  could  give  no  signal 
of  distress,  save  for  the  feeble  call  of  my  swollen, 
thirst-parched  throat.  Then  the  six  bronze  sons 
of  the  plains  sat  down  before  me,  and  looked  at  me. 
Looked!  I  never  see  a  pair  of  beady  black  eyes 
to-day — and  there  are  many  such — that  I  do  not 

213 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

long  to  kill  somebody,  so  vivid  yet  is  the  memory 
of  those  murdering  eyes  looking  at  me. 

At  last  they  spoke — plains  English,  it  is  true — 
but  clear  to  give  their  meaning. 

"Chief  Clarenden  thinks  Kiowas  forget.  He 
comes  with  little  train  across  the  prairies;  Kiowas 
go  to  meet  big  train  east  and  fight  fair  for  Mexican 
brothers  who  hate  Chief  Clarenden.  They  do  not 
stop  to  look  for  little  sneaking  coyotes  when  they 
seek  big  game.  Clarenden  steals  away  Kiowas' 
captive  Hopi.  Cheat  Kiowas  of  big  pay  that  white 
Medicine-man  Josef  would  give  for  her.  Mexican 
brothers  and  Kiowa  tribe  hate  Clarenden.  They 
take  his  son,  you,  to  show  Clarenden  they  can 
steal,  too.  Hopi  girl!  white  brave!  all  the  same." 

The  speaker's  words  came  deliberately,  and  he 
gave  a  contemptuous  wave  of  the  hand  as  he 
closed.  And  the  six  sat  silent  for  a  time.  Then 
another  voice  broke  the  stillness. 

"Yonder  is  your  trail.  Chief  Clarenden  and 
big  white  chiefs  go  by  to  Santa  Fe  to  buy  and  sell 
and  grow  rich.  Indian  sell  captives  to  grow  rich ! 
No!  White  chief  not  let  Indians  buy  and  sell. 
But  we  do  not  kill  white  dogs.  We  leave  you  here 
to  watch  the  trail  for  wagon-trains.  They  may 
not  come  soon.  They  may  not  see  you  nor  hear 
you.  You  can  see  them  pass  on  their  way  to  get 
rich.  You  can  watch  them.  Hopi  girl  would  have 
brought  us  big  money.  We  get  no  richer.  Watch 
white  men  go  get  rich.  You  may  watch  many 
days  till  sun  dries  your  eyes.  Nothing  trouble 
you  here.  Watch  the  trail.  No  wild  animal  come 

214 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

here.  No  water  drown  you  here.  No  fine  meat 
make  you  ache  with  eating  here.  Watch." 

The  six  looked  long  at  me,  and  as  the  light  faded 
their  black  eyes  and  dark  faces  seemed  like  the 
glittering  eyes  and  hooked  bills  of  six  great  dark 
birds  of  prey. 

When  the  last  sunset  glow  was  in  the  west  the 
six  rose  up  and  walked  backward,  still  looking  at 
me,  until  they  passed  my  range  of  vision  and  I 
could  only  feel  their  eyes  upon  me.  Then  I  heard 
the  clatter  of  ponies'  feet  on  the  hard  rock,  the 
fainter  stroke  on  the  thin,  sandy  soil,  the  thud 
on  the  thickening  sod.  Thump,  thump,  thump, 
farther  and  farther  and  farther  away.  The  west 
grew  scarlet,  deepened  to  purple  and  melted  at 
last  into  the  dull  gray  twilight  that  foreruns  the 
darkness  of  night.  One  ray  of  pale  gold  shim- 
mered far  along  toward  the  zenith  and  lost  itself 
in  the  upper  heavens,  and  the  stars  came  forth  in 
the  blue-black  eastern  sky.  And  I  was  alone 
with  the  Presence  whose  arm  is  never  shortened 
and  whose  ear  grows  never  heavy. 

The  trail  to  the  east  was  only  a  dull  line  along 
the  darker  earth.  I  looked  up  at  the  myriad  stars 
coming  swiftly  out  of  space  to  greet  me.  The 
starlit  sky  above  the  open  prairie  speaks  the 
voice  of  the  Infinite  in  a  grandeur  never  matched 
on  land  or  sea. 

I  thought  of  Little  Blue  Flower  on  that  dim- 
lighted  dawning  when  she  had  showed  us  her 
bleeding  hands  and  lashed  shoulders.  And  again 
I  heard  Beverly's  boyish  voice  ring  out : 

15  215 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Let's  take  her  and  take  our  chances." 
And  then  I  was  beside  the  glistening  waters  of 
the  Flat  Rock,  and  Little  Blue  Flower  was  there 
in  her  white  Grecian  robe  and  the  wrought-silver 
headband  with  coral  pendants.  And  Eloise. 
The  golden  hair,  the  soft  dark  eyes,  the  dainty 
peach-bloom  cheek.  Eloise  whom  I  had  loved  al- 
ways and  always.  Eloise  who  loved  Beverly — 
good,  big-hearted,  sunny-faced  Beverly,  who  never 
had  visions.  Any  girl  would  love  him.  Most  of 
all,  Little  Blue  Flower.  What  a  loving  message 
she  had  left  us  in  the  one  word,  Lolomi.  God  pity 
her. 

A  thousand  sharp  pains  racked  my  body.  I 
tried  to  move.  I  longed  for  water.  Then  a 
merciful  darkness  fell  upon  me — not  sleep,  but 
unconsciousness.  And  the  stars  watched  over 
me  through  that  black  night,  lying  there  half  dead 
and  utterly  alone. 

Out  to  the  northwest  Jondo  and  Bill  Banney 
rode  long  on  the  trail  of  the  fleeing  Kiowas.  A 
picture  for  an  artist  of  the  West,  these  two  rough 
men  in  the  garb  and  mount  and  trappings  of  the 
plainsman,  with  eyes  alert  and  strong  faces,  riding 
only  as  men  can  ride  who  go  to  save  a  life  more 
eagerly  than  they  would  save  their  own.  Not  in 
rash  haste,  but  with  unchecked  speed,  losing  no 
mark  along  the  trail  that  should  guide  them  more 
quickly  to  their  goal,  so  they  passed  side  by  side, 
and  neither  said  a  word  for  hours  along  the  way. 
Night  came,  and  the  needs  of  their  ponies  made 

216 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

them  pause  briefly.  The  trail,  too,  was  harder  to 
follow  now.  They  might  lose  it  in  the  darkness 
and  so  lose  time.  And  those  two  men  were  going 
forth  to  victory.  Not  for  one  single  heart-beat 
did  they  doubt  their  power  to  win,  and  the  stead- 
fast assurance  made  them  calm. 

Daylight  again,  and  a  fresher  trail  made  them 
hurry  on.  They  drank  at  every  stream  and  ate  a 
snatch  of  food  as  they  rode.  They  reached  the 
hurriedly  quitted  Kiowa  camp,  and  searched  for 
the  sign  of  vengeance  on  a  captive  there.  Jondo 
knew  those  signs,  and  his  heart  beat  high  with 
hope. 

"They  haven't  done  it  yet,"  he  said  to  his  com- 
panion. "They  want  to  get  away  first.  We  are 
safe  for  a  day." 

And  they  rode  swiftly  on  again. 

"There's  trouble  here,"  Bill  Banney  declared  as 
he  watched  the  ground.  ' '  Too  many  feet.  Could 
it  be  here?" 

His  voice  was  hardly  audible.  The  two  men 
halted  and  read  the  ground  with  piercing  eyes. 
Something  had  happened,  for  there  had  been  a 
circling  and  chasing  in  and  out,  and  the  sod  was 
cut  deep  with  hoofprints. 

"No  council  nor  ceremony,  no  open  space  for 
anything."  Jondo  would  not  even  speak  the 
word  he  was  bound  not  to  know. 

"They've  divided,  Jondo.  Here  goes  the  big 
crowd,  and  there  a  smaller  one,"  Bill  declared. 

"There  were  a  lot  of  Dog  Indians  along  for 
thieving.  They've  split  here.  Seem  to  have 

217 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

fussed  a  bit  over  it,  too.  And  yonder  runs  the 
Kiowa  trail  to  the  north.  Here  go  the  Dogs  east." 
Jondo  replied.  "We'll  follow  the  Kiowas  a  spell," 
he  added,  after  a  thoughtful  pause. 

And  again  they  were  off.  It  was  nearing  noon 
now,  and  the  trail  was  fresher  every  minute.  At 
last  the  plainsmen  climbed  a  low  swell,  halting  out 
of  sight  on  the  hither  side.  Then  creeping  to  the 
crest,  they  looked  down  on  the  Indian  camp  lying 
in  a  little  dry  valley  of  a  lost  stream  whose  course 
ran  underground  beneath  them. 

Lying  flat  on  the  ground,  each  with  his  head 
behind  a  low  bush  on  the  top  of  the  swell,  the  men 
read  the  valley  with  searching  eyes.  Then  Jondo, 
with  Bill  at  his  heels,  slid  swiftly  down  the  slope. 

"Gail  Clarenden  isn't  there.  We  must  take  the 
trail  east,  and  ride  hard,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

And  they  rode  hard  until  they  were  beyond  the 
range  of  the  Kiowa  outposts. 

"What's  your  game,  Jondo?"  Bill  asked,  at 
length. 

"They  quarreled  back  there.  Either  the  Dogs 
have  Gail,  or  he's  lost  somewhere.  The  Kiowas 
are  wraiting  for  something.  I  can't  quite  under- 
stand, but  we'll  go  on." 

It  was  mid-afternoon  and  the  two  riders  were 
faint  from  the  hardship  of  the  chase,  but  nobody 
who  knew  Jondo  ever  expected  him  to  give  up. 
The  sun  blazed  down  in  the  heat  of  the  late  after- 
noon, and  the  baking  earth  lay  brown  and  dry 
beneath  the  heat-quivering  air.  There  was  no 

218 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

sound  nor  motion  on  the  plains  as  the  two  faithful 
brothers — in  purpose — followed  hard  on  the  track 
of  the  Dog  Indian  band. 

Ahead  of  them  the  trail  grew  clearer  until  they 
saw  the  object  of  their  chase,  a  band  nearly  a 
hundred  strong,  riding  slowly,  far  ahead.  Jondo 
and  Bill  halted  and  dropped  to  the  ground.  No 
cover  was  in  sight,  but  if  the  Indians  were  unsus- 
picious they  might  not  be  discovered.  On  went 
the  outlaw  band,  and  the  two  white  men  followed 
after.  Suddenly  the  Indians  halted  and  grouped 
themselves  together.  The  plainsmen  watched 
eagerly  for  the  cause.  Out  of  the  south  six 
Indians  came  riding  swiftly  into  view.  They, 
too,  halted,  but  neither  group  seemed  aware  that 
the  two  dull,  motionless  spots  to  the  west  were  two 
white  men  watching  them.  White  men  didn't  be- 
long there. 

The  six  rode  forward.  There  was  much  par- 
leying and  pointing  eastward.  Then  the  six  rode 
rapidly  northward  and  the  Dog  band  spurted  east 
as  rapidly. 

Jondo  looked  at  Bill. 

' '  I  see  it  clear  as  day.  God  help  us  not  to  be  too 
late!"  he  cried,  triumphantly,  leaping  to  his  saddle. 

"What  in  Heaven's  name  to  you  see?"  Bill 
asked  eagerly. 

"Gail  wasn't  with  the  Kiow«as  back  there.  He 
wasn't  with  the  Dogs  out  yonder.  Don't  you 
remember  he  told  us  about  six  of  the  devils  get- 
ting him  in  their  friendly  camp  that  morning? 
Yonder  go  the  six.  They  have  left  Gail  somewhere 

219 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

to  die  and  they  are  cutting  back  to  join  the  tribe. 
They  have  sent  the  Dogs  on  east.  We'll  run  down 
this  trail  to  the  south.  Hurry,  Bill!  For  God's 
sake,  hurry!  It's  the  Lord's  mercy  they  didn't 
see  us  back  here." 

That  day  Pawnee  Rock  saw  the  same  old  beauty 
of  sunrise;  the  same  clear  sweeping  breeze;  the 
same  long  shining  hours  on  the  green  prairies;  but 
it  all  meant  nothing  to  me,  racked  with  pain 
and  choking  with  thirst  through  the  awful  lengths 
of  that  summer  day.  Fitful  unconsciousness,  with 
fever  and  delirium,  seeing  mocking  faces  with 
snaky  black  eyes,  looking  long  at  me ;  food  almost 
touching  my  lips,  and  floods  of  crystal  waters 
everywhere  just  out  of  reach.  I  was  on  the  bluff 
above  the  river  at  Fort  Leavenworth  again, 
watching  for  the  fish  on  the  sand-bars.  They  were 
Indians  instead  of  fish,  and  they  laughed  at  me 
and  called  me  a  big  brown  bob-cat.  Then  Mother 
Bridget  and  Aunty  Boone  would  have  come  to  me 
if  I  could  only  make  them  hear  me.  But  the  sun 
beat  hot  upon  my  burning  face,  and  my  swollen 
lips  refused  to  moan. 

And  then  I  looked  to  the  eastward  and  hope 
sprang  to  life  within  me.  A  wagon-train  was 
crawling  slowly  toward  Pawnee  Rock.  Tears 
drenched  my  eyes  until  I  could  hardly  count  the 
wagons — twenty,  thirty,  forty.  It  must  be  far  in 
the  afternoon  now,  and  they  might  encamp  here. 
But  they  seemed  to  be  hurrying.  I  could  not  see 
for  pain,  but  I  knew  they  were  near  the  headland 
now.  I  could  hear  the  rattle  of  the  wagon-chains 

220 


THE    BROTHERHOOD 

and  the  tramp  of  feet  and  shouts  of  the  bull- 
whackers.  I  tugged  masterfully  at  my  bonds.  It 
was  a  useless  effort.  I  tried  to  shout,  but  only 
low  moans  came  forth  from  my  parched  lips.  I 
strove  and  raged  and  prayed.  The  wagons  hur- 
ried on  and  on,  a  long  time,  for  there  were  many 
of  them.  Then  the  rattling  grew  fainter,  the 
voices  were  far  off,  the  thud  of  hoof -beats  ceased. 
The  train  had  passed  the  Rock,  never  dreaming 
that  a  man  lay  dying  in  sight  of  the  succor  they 
would  so  gladly  have  given. 

The  sun  began  to  strike  in  level  rays  across  the 
land,  and  the  air  was  cooler,  but  I  gave  no  heed  to 
things  about  me.  Death  was  waiting — slow,  taunt- 
ing death.  The  stars  would  be  land  again  to- 
night as  they  had  been  last  night,  but  death 
crouching  between  me  and  the  starlight,  was 
slowly  crawling  up  Pawnee  Rock.  Oh,  so  slowly, 
yet  so  surely  creeping  on.  The  sun  was  gone  and  a 
tender  pink  illumined  the  sky.  The  light  was  soft 
now.  If  death  would  only  steal  in  before  the  glare 
burst  forth.  I  forgot  that  night  must  come  first. 
Pity,  God  of  heaven,  pity  me ! 

And  then  the  Presence  came,  and  a  sweet,  low 
voice — I  hear  it  still  sometimes,  when  sunsets 
soften  to  twilight,  "My  presence  shall  go  with 
thee,  and  I  will  give  thee  rest."  I  felt  a  thrill  of 
triumph  pulse  through  my  being.  Unconquered, 
strong,  and  glad  is  he  who  trusts. 

"I  shall  not  die.  I  shall  live,  and  in  God's  good 
time  I  shall  be  saved."  I  tried  to  speak  the  words, 
but  I  could  not  hear  my  voice.  My  pains  were 

221 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

gone  and  I  lay  staring  at  the  evening  sky  all 
mother-of-pearl  and  gold  above  my  head.  And 
on  my  lips  a  smile. 

And  so  they  found  me  at  twilight,  as  a  tired 
child  about  to  fall  asleep.  They  did  not  cry  out, 
nor  fall  on  my  neck,  nor  weep.  But  Bill  Banney's 
strong  arms  carried  me  tenderly  away.  Water, 
food,  unbound  swollen  limbs,  bathed  in  the  warm 
Arkansas  flow,  soft  grass  for  a  bed,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  big  plainsman,  my  childhood  idol,  gentle  as  a 
girl's,  looking  unutterable  things  into  my  eyes. 

I've  never  known  a  mother's  love,  but  for  that 
loss  the  Lord  gave  me — Jondo. 


XIII 

IN   THE   SHELTER   OF   SAN   MIGUEL 


Fear  not,  dear  love,  thy  trial  hour  shall  be 
The  dearest  bond  between  my  heart  and  thee. 

— ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND. 


WHEN  we  reached  the  end  of  the  trail  and  en- 
tered a  second  time  into  Santa  Fe  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  were  floating  lazily  above  the  Palace 
of  the  Governors.  Out  on  the  heights  beyond  the 
old  Spanish  prison  stood  Fort  Marcy,  whose  battle- 
ments told  of  a  military  might,  strong  to  control 
what  by  its  strength  it  had  secured.  In  its  shad- 
ow was  La  Garita,  of  old  the  place  of  execution, 
against  whose  blind  wall  many  a  prisoner  had 
started  on  the  long  trail  at  the  word  of  a  Spanish 
bullet,  La  Garita  changed  now  from  a  thing  of 
legalized  horror  to  a  landmark  of  history. 

But  the  city  itself  seemed  unchanged,  and  there 
was  little  evidence  that  Yankee  thrift  and  ei'?rgy 
had  entered  New  Mexico  with  the  new  go-rern- 
ment.  The  narrow  street  still  marked  the  trail's 
end  before  the  Exchange  Hotel.  San  J'iiguel, 
with  its  dun  walls  and  triple-towered  st<e';le,  still 
stood  guard  over  the  soul  of  Santa  Fes  g  it  had 

223 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

stood  for  three  sunny  centuries.  The  Mexican 
still  drove  down  the  loaded  burro-train  of  firewood 
from  the  mountains.  The  Indian  basked  in'' the 
sunny  corners  of  the  Plaza..  The  adobe  dwellings 
clustered  blindly  along  little  lanes  leading  out  to 
nowhere  in  particular.  The  orchards  and  corn- 
fields, primitively  cultivated,  made  tiny  oases 
beside  the  trickling  streams  and  sandy  beds  of  dry 
arroyos.  The  sheep  grazed  on  the  scant  grasses 
of  the  plain.  The  steep  gray  mesa  slopes  were 
splotched  with  clumps  of  evergreen  shrubs  and 
pifion  trees.  And  over  all  the  silent  mountains 
kept  watch. 

The  business  house  of  Felix  Narveo,  however, 
did  not  share  in  this  lethargy.  The  streets  about 
the  Plaza  were  full  of  Conestoga  wagons,  with 
tired  ox-teams  lying  yoked  or  unyoked  before 
them.  Most  of  the  traffic  borne  in  by  these 
came  directly  or  indirectly  to  the  house  of  Narveo. 
And  its  proprietor,  the  same  silent,  alert  man,  had 
taken  advantage  of  a  less  restricted  government, 
following  the  Mexican  War,  to  increase  his  in- 
terests. So  mine  and  meadow,  flock  and  herd, 
trappers'  snare  and  Indian  loom  and  forge,  all 
poured  their  treasures  into  his  hands — a  clearing- 
house for  the  products  of  New  Mexico  to  swrell  the 
great  overland  commerce  that  followed  the  Santa 
Fe  Trail. 

For  all  of  which  the  ground  plan  had  been  laid 
mainly  by  Esmond  Clarenden,  when  with  tremen- 
dous daring  he  came  to  Santa  Fe  and  spied  out  the 
land  for  these  years  to  follow. 

224 


SAN   MIGUEL 

A  boy's  memory  is  keen,  and  all  the  hours  of 
that  other  journey  hither,  with  their  eager  antic- 
ipation and  youthful  curiosity,  and  love  of  sur- 
prise and  adventure,  came  back  to  Beverly  Claren- 
den  and  me  as  we  pulled  along  the  last  lap  of  the 
trail. 

"Was  it  really  so  long  ago,  Bev,  that  we  came 
in  here,  all  eyes  and  ears?"  I  asked  my  cousin. 

"No,  it  was  last  evening.  And  not  an  eyebrow 
in  this  Rip  Van  "Winkle  town  has  lifted  since," 
Beverly  replied.  "Yonder  stands  that  old  church 
where  the  gallant  knight  on  a  stiff-legged  pony 
spied  Little  Lees  and  knocked  the  head  off  of  that 
tormenting  Marcos  villain,  and  kicked  it  under  the 
door-step.  Say,  Gail,  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  see 
the  grown-up  Little  Lees,  wouldn't  you?  And  I'd 
as  soon  this  was  Saint  Louis  as  Santa  Fe." 

Since  the  night  of  Mat's  wedding,  I  had  been 
resolutely  putting  away  all  thought  of  Eloise  St. 
Vrain.  I  belonged  to  the  plains.  All  my  training 
had  been  for  this.  I  thought  I  was  very  old  and 
settled  now.  But  the  mention  of  her  pet  name 
sent  a  thrill  through  me;  and  these  streets  of 
Santa  Fe  brought  back  a  flood  of  memories  and 
boyhood  dreams  and  visions. 

"Bev, how  many  auld-lang-syners  do  you  reckon 
we'll  meet  in  this  land  of  sunshine  and  chilly 
beans?"  I  asked,  carelessly. 

"Well,  how  many  of  them  do  you  remember, 
Mr.  Cyclopedia  of  Prominent  Men  and  Pretty 
Women?"  Beverly  inquired. 

"Oh,  there  was  Felix  Narveo  and  Father  Josef — 
225 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

and  Little  Blue  Flower" —  A  shadow  flitted 
across  my  cousin's  face  for  a  moment,  leaving  it 
sunny  as  ever  again. 

"And  there  was  that  black-eyed  Marcos  boy 
everywhere,  and  Ferdinand  Ramero  whom  we  were 
warned  to  step  wide  of,"  I  went  on. 

"Oh,  that  tall  thin  man  with  blue-glass  eyes 
that  cut  your  fingers  when  he  looked  at  you. 
Maybe  he  went  out  the  back  door  of  New  Mexico 
when  General  Kearny  peeped  in  at  the  front 
transom.  There  wasn't  any  fight  in  that  man." 

r'Jondo  says  he  is  still  in  Santa  Fe."  Just  as  I 
spoke  an  Indian  swept  by  us,  riding  with  the  ease 
of  that  born-to-the-horseback  race. 

"Beverly,  do  you  remember  that  Indian  boy 
that  we  saw  out  at  Agua  Fria?"  I  asked. 

"The  day  we  found  Little  Lees  asleep  in  the 
church?"  Beverly  broke  in,  eagerly. 

In  our  whole  journey  he  had  hardly  spoken  of 
Eloise,  and,  knowing  Beverly  as  I  did,  I  had  felt 
sure  for  that  reason  that  she  had  not  been  on  his 
mind.  Now  twice  in  five  minutes  he  had  called 
her  name.  But  why  should  he  not  remember  her 
here,  as  well  as  I? 

"Yes,  I  remember  there  was  an  Indian  boy,  sort 
of  sneaky  like,  and  deaf  and  dumb,  that  followed 
us  until  I  turned  and  stared  him  out  of  it.  That's 
the  way  to  get  rid  of  'em,  Gail,  same  as  a  savage 
dog,"  Beverly  said,  lightly. 

"What  if  there  are  six  of  them  all  staring  at 
you?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  Gail,  for  the  Lord's  sake  forget  that!" 
226 


SAN    MIGUEL 

Beverly  cried,  affectionately.  ' '  When  you've  got  an 
arrow  wound  rotting  your  arm  off  and  six  hundred 
and  twenty  degrees  of  fever  in  your  blood,  and  the 
son  of  your  old  age  is  gone  for  three  days  and 
nights,  and  you  don't  dare  to  think  where,  you'll 
know  why  a  fellow  doesn't  want  to  remember." 
There  were  real  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes.  Beverly 
was  deeper  than  I  had  thought. 

"Well,  to  change  gradually,  I  wonder  if  that 
centaur  who  just  passed  us  might  be  that  same 
Indian  of  Agua  Fria  of  long  ago." 

"He  couldn't  be,"  Beverly  declared,  confidently. 
"That  boy  got  one  square  look  at  my  eagle  eye  and 
he  never  stopped  running  till  he  jumped  into  the 
Pacific  Ocean.  '  I  shall  see  him  again  over  there.' " 
Half  chanting  the  last  words,  Beverly,  boy-hearted 
and  daring  and  happy,  cracked  his  whip,  and  our 
mule-team  began  to  prance  off  in  mule  style  the 
journey's  latter  end. 

Oh,  Beverly!  Beverly!  Why  did  that  day  on 
the  parade-ground  at  Fort  Leavenworth  and  a 
boy's  pleading  face  lifted  to  mine,  come  back  to  me 
at  that  moment  ?  Strange  are  the  lines  of  life.  I 
shall  never  clearly  read  them  all. 

Down  in  the  Plaza  a  tall,  slender  young  man  was 
sitting  in  the  shade,  idly  digging  at  the  sod  with  an 
open  pocket-knife.  There  was  something  mag- 
netic about  him,  the  presence  that  even  in  a  crowd 
demands  a  second  look. 

He  was  dressed  in  spotless  white  linen,  and  with 
his  handsome  mustache,  his  well-groomed  black 
hair,  and  sparkling  black  eyes,  he  was  a  true  type 

227 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

of  the  leisure  son  of  the  Spanish-Mexican  grandee. 
He  stared  at  our  travel-stained  caravan  as  it 
rolled  down  the  Plaza's  edge,  but  his  careless  smile 
changed  to  an  insolent  grin,  showing  all  his  perfect 
teeth  as  he  caught  sight  of  Beverly  and  me. 

We  laid  no  claims  to  manly  beauty,  but  we  were 
stalwart  young  fellows,  with  the  easy  strength  of 
good  health,  good  habits,  clear  conscience,  and  the 
frank  faces  of  boys  reared  on  the  frontier,  and 
accustomed  to  its  dangers  by  men  who  defied  the 
very  devil  to  do  them  harm.  But  even  in  our  best 
clothes,  saved  for  the  display  at  the  end  of  the 
trail,  we  were  uncouth  compared  to  this  young 
gentleman,  and  our  tanned  faces  and  hard  brown 
hands  bespoke  the  rough  bull-whacker  of  the 
plains. 

As  our  train  halted,  the  young  man  lighted  a 
cigar  and  puffed  the  smoke  toward  us,  as  if  to 
ignore  our  presence. 

' '  Its  mamma  has  dressed  it  up  to  go  and  play  in 
the  park,  but  it  mustn't  speak  to  little  boys,  nor 
soil  its  pinafore,  nor  listen  to  any  naughty  words. 
And  it  couldn't  hold  its  own  against  a  kitten. 
Nice  little  clothes-horse  to  hang  white  goods  on!" 

Beverly  had  turned  his  back  to  the  Plaza  and  was 
speaking  in  a  low  tone,  with  the  serious  face  and 
far-away  air  of  one  who  referred  to  a  thing  of  the 
past. 

"Bev,  you  are  a  mind-reader,  a  character- 
sketcher — "  I  began,  but  stopped  short  to  stare 
into  the  Plaza  beyond  him. 

The  young  man  had  sprung  to  his  feet  and  stood 
228 


SAN    MIGUEL 

there  with  flashing  eyes  and  hands  clenched.  Be- 
hind him  was  the  same  young  Indian  who  had 
passed  us  on  the  trail.  He  was  lithe,  with  every 
muscle  trained  to  strength  and  swiftness  and  en- 
durance. 

He  had  muttered  a  word  into  the  young  white 
man's  ear  that  made  him  spring  up.  And  while 
the  face  of  the  Indian  was  expressionless,  the 
other's  face  was  full  of  surprise  and  anger;  and  I 
recognized  both  faces  in  an  instant. 

"Beverly  Clarenden,  there  are  two  auld-lang- 
syners  behind  you  right  now.  One  is  Marcos 
Ramero,  and  the  other  is  Santan  of  Bent's  Fort," 
I  said,  softly. 

Beverly  turned  quickly,  something  in  his  fear- 
less face  making  the  two  men  drop  their  eyes. 
When  we  looked  again  they  had  left  the  Plaza  by 
different  ways. 

After  dinner  that  evening  Jondo  and  Bill  Banney 
hurried  away  for  a  business  conference  with  Felix 
Narveo.  Rex  and  Beverly  also  disappeared  and 
I  was  alone. 

The  last  clear  light  of  a  long  summer  day  was 
lingering  over  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande,  and 
the  cool  evening  breeze  was  rippling  in  from  the 
mountains,  when  I  started  out  along  the  narrow 
street  that  made  the  terminal  of  the  old  Santa 
Fe  Trail.  I  was  hardly  conscious  of  any  purpose 
of  direction  until  I  came  to  the  half-dry  Santa  Fe 
River  and  saw  the  spire  of  San  Miguel  beyond  it. 
In  a  moment  the  same  sense  of  loss  and  longing 
swept  over  me  that  I  had  fought  with  on  the  night 

229 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

after  Mat's  wedding,  when  I  sat  on  the  bluff 
and  stared  at  the  waters  of  the  Kaw  flowing  down 
to  meet  the  Missouri.  And  then  I  remembered 
what  Father  Josef  had  said  long  ago  out  by  the 
sandy  arroyo : 

"Among  friends  or  enemies,  the  one  haven  of 
safety  always  is  the  holy  sanctuary." 

I  felt  the  strong  need  for  a  haven  from  myself  as 
I  crossed  the  stream  and  followed  the  trail  up  to 
the  doorway  of  San  Miguel. 

The  shadows  were  growing  long,  few  sounds 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  hour,  and  the  spirit  of 
peace  brooded  in  the  soft  light  and  sweet  air.  I 
had  almost  reached  the  church  when  I  stopped 
suddenly,  stunned  by  what  I  saw.  Two  people 
were  strolling  up  the  narrow,  crooked  street  that 
wanders  eastward  beside  the  building — a  tall, 
slender  young  man  in  white  linen  clothes  and  a  girl 
in  a  soft  creamy  gown,  with  a  crimson  scarf  draped 
about  her  shoulders.  They  were  both  bare- 
headed, and  the  man's  heavy  black  hair  and  curl- 
ing black  mustache,  and  the  girl's  coronal  of  golden 
braids  and  the  profile  of  her  fair  face  left  no  doubt 
about  the  two.  It  was  Marcos  Ramero  and 
Eloise  St.  Vrain.  They  were  talking  earnestly; 
and  in  a  very  lover -like  manner  the  young  man 
bent  down  to  catch  his  companion's  words. 

Something  seemed  to  snap  asunder  in  my  brain, 
and  from  that  moment  I  knew  myself ;  knew  how 
futile  is  the  belief  that  miles  of  prairie  trail  and 
strength  of  busy  days  can  ever  cast  down  and 
break  an  idol  of  the  heart. 

230 


SAN    MIGUEL 

In  a  minute  they  had  passed  a  turn  in  the  street, 
and  there  was  only  sandy  earth  and  dust-colored 
walls  and  a  yellow  glare  above  them,  where  a 
moment  ago  had  been  a  shimmer  of  sunset's  gold. 

"The  one  haven  of  safety  always  is  the  holy 
sanctuary." 

Father  Josef's  words  sounded  in  my  ears,  and  the 
face  of  old  San  Miguel  seemed  to  wear  a  welcoming 
smile.  I  stepped  into  the  deep  doorway  and 
stood  there,  aimless  and  unthinking,  looking  out 
toward  where  the  Jemez  Mountains  were  outlined 
against  the  southwest  horizon.  Presently  I  caught 
the  sound  of  feet,  and  Marcos  Ramero  strode  out 
of  the  narrow  street  and  followed  the  trail  into  the 
heart  of  the  city. 

I  stared  after  him,  noting  the  graceful  carriage, 
the  well-fitting  clothes,  and  the  proud  set  of  the 
handsome  head.  There  was  no  doubt  about  him. 
Did  he  hold  the  heart  of  the  golden-haired  girl 
who  had  walked  into  my  life  to  stay?  As  he 
passed  out  of  my  sight  Eloise  St.  Vrain  came 
swiftly  around  the  corner  of  the  street  to  the 
church  door,  and  stopped  before  me  in  wide-eyed 
amazement.  Eloise,  with  her  clinging  creamy 
draperies,  and  the  vivid  red  of  her  silken  scarf, 
and  her  glorious  hair. 

"Oh,  Gail  Clarenden,  is  it  really  you?"  she  cried, 
stretching  out  both  hands  toward  me  with  a  glad 
light  in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  Little  Lees,  it  is  I." 

I  took  both  of  her  hands  in  mine.  They  were 
soft  and  white,  and  mine  were  brown  and  horny, 
16  231 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

but  their  touch  sent  a  thrill  of  joy  through  me. 
She  clung  tightly  to  my  hands  for  an  instant. 
Then  a  deeper  pink  swept  her  cheeks,  and  she 
dropped  her  eyes  and  stepped  back. 

"They  told  me  you  were — lost — on  the  way; 
that  some  Kiowas  had  killed  you." 

She  lifted  her  face  again,  and  heaven  had  not 
anything  better  for  me  than  the  depths  of  those 
big  dark  eyes  looking  into  mine. 

' 'Who  told  you,  Eloise?" 

The  girl  looked  over  her  shoulder  apprehen- 
sively, and  lowered  her  voice  as  she  replied : 

' '  Marcos  Ramero. ' ' 

"He's  a  liar.  I  am  awfully  alive,  and  Marcos 
Ramero  knows  I  am,  for  he  saw  me  and  recognized 
me  down  in  the  Plaza  this  afternoon,"  I  declared. 

Just  then  the  church  door  opened  and  a  girl  in 
Mexican  dress  came  out.  I  did  not  see  her  face, 
nor  notice  which  way  she  took,  for  a  priest  fol- 
lowing her  stepped  between  us.  It  was  Father 
Josef. 

' '  My  children,  come  inside.  The  holy  sanctuary 
offers  you  a  better  shelter  than  the  open  street." 

I  shall  never  forget  that  voice,  nor  hear  another 
like  it.  Inside,  the  candles  were  burning  dimly  at 
the  altar.  The  last  rays  of  daylight  came  through 
the  high  south  windows,  touching  the  carved  old 
rafters  and  gray  adobe  with  a  red  glow.  Long 
ago  human  hands,  for  lack  of  trowels,  had  laid  that 
adobe  surface  on  the  rough  stone — hands  whose 
imprint  is  graven  still  on  those  crudely  dented 
walls. 

232 


SAN   MIGUEL 

We  sat  down  on  a  low  seat  inside  of  the  doorway, 
and  Father  Josef  passed  up  the  aisle  to  the  altar, 
leaving  us  there  alone. 

"Eloise,  Marcos  Ramero  is  your  friend,  and  I 
beg  your  pardon  for  speaking  of  him  as  I  did." 

I  resented  with  all  my  soul  the  thought  of  this 
girl  caring  for  the  son  of  the  man  who  in  some  in- 
famous way  had  wronged  Jondo,  but  I  had  no 
right  to  be  rude  about  him. 

"Gail,  may  I  say  something  to  you?"  The 
voice  was  as  a  pleading  call  and  the  girl's  face 
was  full  of  pathos. 

"Say  on,  Little  Lees,"  was  all  that  I  could  ven- 
ture to  answer. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  you  came  in  here 
and  threw  Marcos  Ramero  out  of  that  door?" 

"I  do,  "I  replied. 

"Would  you  do  it  again,  if  it  were  necessary?  I 
mean — if — "  the  voice  faltered. 

I  had  heard  the  same  pleading  tone  on  the  night 
of  Mat's  wedding  when  Eloise  and  Beverly  were  in 
the  little  side  porch  together.  I  looked  up  at  the 
red  light  on  the  old  church  rafters  and  the  rough 
gray  walls.  How  like  to  those  hand-marked  walls 
our  memories  are,  deep-dented  by  the  words  they 
hold  forever!  Then  I  looked  down  at  the  girl 
beside  me  and  I  forgot  everything  else.  Her 
golden  hair,  her  creamy-white  dress,  and  that  rich 
crimson  scarf  draped  about  her  shoulders  and 
falling  across  her  knees  would  have  made  a  Ma- 
donna's model  that  old  Giovanni  Cimabue  him- 
self would  have  joyed  to  copy. 

233 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Is  it  likely  to  be  necessary?  Be  fair  with  me, 
Eloise.  I  saw  you  two  strolling  up  that  little  goat- 
run  of  a  street  out  there  just  now.  Judging  from 
the  back  of  his  head,  Marcos  looked  satisfied.  I 
shouldn't  want  to  interfere  nor  make  you  any 
trouble,"  I  said,  earnestly. 

"It  is  I  who  should  not  make  you  any  trouble, 
but,  oh,  Gail,  I  came  here  this  evening  because  I 
was  afraid  and  I  didn't  know  where  else  to  go,  and 
I  found  you.  I  thought  you  were  dead  somewhere 
out  on  the  Kansas  prairie.  Maybe  it  was  to  help 
me  a  little  that  you  came  here  to-night." 

Her  hands  were  gripped  tightly  and  her  mouth 
was  firm-set  in  an  effort  to  be  brave. 

"Why,  Eloise,  I'd  never  let  Marcos  Ramero,  nor 
anybody  else,  make  you  one  little  heart-throb 
afraid.  If  you  will  only  let  me  help  you,  I  wouldn't 
call  it  trouble;  I'd  call  it  by  another  name."  The 
longing  to  say  more  made  me  pause  there. 

The  light  was  fading  overhead,  but  the  church 
lamps  gave  a  soft  glow  that  seemed  to  shield  off 
the  shadowy  gloom. 

"Father  Josef  came  all  the  way  from  New 
Mexico  to  St.  Ann's  to  have  me  come  back  here, 
and  Mother  Bridget  sent  Sister  Anita,  you  re- 
member her,  up  to  St.  Louis  to  come  with  me 
by  way  of  New  Orleans.  I  didn't  tell  you  that 
I  might  be  here  when  your  train  came  in  over- 
land because — because  of  some  things  about  my 
own  people — " 

The  fair  head  was  bowed  and  the  soft  voice 
trembled. 


SAN    MIGUEL 

"Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me  anything,  Little 
Lees,"  I  whispered,  assuringly. 

"I  never  saw  my  father,  but  my  mother  was 
very  beautiful  and  loving,  and  we  were  so  happy 
together.  I  was  still  a  very  little  girl  when  she 
fell  sick  and  they  took  me  away  from  her.  I 
never  knew  when  she  died  nor  where  she  was 
buried.  Ferdinand  Ramero  had  charge  of  her 
property.  He  controlled  everything  after  she 
went  away,  and  I  have  always  lived  in  fear  of  his 
word.  I  am  helpless  when  he  commands,  for  he 
has  a  strange  power  over  minds;  and  as  to  Marcos 
— you  know  what  a  little  cat  I  was.  I  had  to  be 
to  live  with  him.  It  wasn't  until  we  were  all  at 
Bent's  Fort  that  I  got  over  my  fear  of  you  and 
Beverly.  The  day  you  threw  Marcos  out  of  here 
was  the  first  time  I  ever  had  a  champion  to  defend 
me." 

I  wanted  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and  tell  her 
what  I  dared  not  think  she  would  let  me  say.  So  I 
listened  in  sympathetic  silence. 

"Then  came  an  awful  day  out  at  Agua  Fria, 
and  Father  Josef  took  me  in  his  arms  as  he 
would  take  a  baby,  and  sang  me  to  sleep  with 
i  the  songs  my  mother  loved  to  sing.  I  think  it 
must  have  been  midnight  when  I  wakened.  It 
was  dreary  and  cold,  and  Esmond  Clarenden 
and  Ferdinand  Ramero  were  there,  and  Father 
Josef  and  Jondo." 

And  then  she  told  me,  as  she  remembered  them, 
the  happenings  of  that  night  at  Agua  Fria,  the 
same  story  that  Jondo  told  me  later.  But  until 

235 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

that  evening  I  had  known  nothing  of  how  Eloise 
had  come  to  us. 

"You  know  the  rest,"  Eloise  went  on  "I  have 
had  a  boarding-school  life,  and  no  real  friends, 
except  the  Clarenden  family,  outside  of  these 
schools." 

"You  poor  little  girl!  One  of  the  same  Claren- 
den family  is  ready  to  be  your  friend  now,"  I  said, 
tenderly,  remembering  keenly  how  Uncle  Esmond 
and  Jondo  had  loved  and  protected  three  orphan 
children. 

"The  Rameros  think  nobody  but  a  Ramero  can 
do  that  now.  Marcos  is  very  much  changed.  He 
has  been  educated  in  Europe,  is  handsome,  and 
courtly  in  his  manners,  and  as  his  father's  heir  he 
will  be  wealthy.  He  came  to-night  to  ask  me,  to 
urge  and  plead  with  me,  to  marry  him."  Eloise 
paused. 

"Do  you  need  the  defense  of  a  bull-whacker  of 
the  plains  against  these  things?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  could  depend  on  myself  if  it  were  only 
Marcos.  He  comes  with  polished  ways  and  pleas- 
ing words,"  Eloise  replied.  "It  is  his  father's 
iron  fist  back  of  him  that  strikes  at  me  through 
his  graciousness.  He  tells  me  that  all  the  St. 
Vrain  money,  which  he  controls  by  the  terms 
of  my  father's  will,  he  can  give  to  the  Church, 
if  he  chooses,  and  leave  me  disinherited." 

"We  don't  mind  that  a  bit  as  a  starter  up  in 
Kansas.  Come  out  on  our  prairies  and  try  it,"  I 
suggested. 

"But,  Gail,  that  isn't  all.  There  is  something 
236 


SAN    MIGUEL 

worse,  dreadfully  worse,  that  I  cannot  tell  you, 
that  only  the  Rameros  know,  and  hold  like  a 
sword  over  my  head.  If  I  marry  Marcos  his 
father  will  destroy  all  evidence  of  it  and  I  shall 
have  a  handsome,  talented,  rich  husband."  Eloise 
bowed  her  head  and  clasped  her  hands,  crushed  by 
the  misery  of  her  lot. 

"And  if  you  refuse  to  marry  this  scoundrel?"  I 
asked,  bluntly. 

"Then  I  will  be  a  penniless  outcast.  The  Ra- 
meros are  powerful  here,  and  the  Church  will  be 
with  them,  for  it  will  get  my  inheritance.  I  am 
helpless  and  alone  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

I  think  I  had  never  known  what  anger  meant 
before.  This  beautiful  girl,  homeless,  and  about 
to  be  robbed  of  her  fortune,  reared  in  luxury,  with 
no  chance  for  developing  self-reliance  and  cour- 
age, was  being  hemmed  in  and  forced  to  a  mar- 
riage by  threats  of  poverty  and  a  secret  some- 
thing against  which  she  was  powerless.  All  the 
manhood  in  me  rallied  to  her  cause,  and  she  was 
an  hundredfold  dearer  to  me  now,  in  her  help- 
lessness. 

"Eloise,  I'm  a  horny-handed  driver  of  a  bull- 
team  on  the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  but  you  will  let  me 
help  you  if  I  can.  So  far  as  your  money  is  con- 
cerned, there's  a  lot  of  it  on  earth,  even  if  the 
Church  should  grab  up  your  little  bit  because 
Ferdinand  Ramero  says  your  father's  will  permits 
it.  There  are  evil  representatives  in  every  Church, 
no  matter  what  its  name  may  be,  Catholic,  Protes- 
tant, Indian,  or  Jew,  but  Father  Josef  up  there  is 

237 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

bigger  than  his  priestly  coat,  and  you  can  trust 
that  size  anywhere.  And  as  to  the  knowledge  of 
this  '  something '  known  just  to  Ferdinand  Ramero, 
if  he  is  the  only  one  who  knows  it,  it  is  too  small  to 
get  far,  if  it  were  turned  loose.  And  any  man  who 
would  use  such  infamous  means  to  get  what  he 
wants  is  too  small  to  have  much  influence  if  he 
doesn't  get  it.  This  is  a  big,  wide,  good  world, 
Little  Lees,  and  the  father  of  Marcos  Ramero,  with 
all  his  power  and  wealth,  has  a  short  lariat  that 
doesn't  let  him  graze  wide.  Jondo  holds  the  other 
end  of  that  lariat,  and  he  knows." 

Eloise  listened  eagerly,  but  her  face  was  very 
white. 

"Gail,  you  don't  know  the  Ramero  blood.  I 
am  helpless  and  terrified  with  them  in  spite  of  their 
suave  manners  and  flattering  words.  Why  did 
Father  Josef  bring  me  back  here  if  the  Church  is 
not  with  them?  And  then  that  awful  shadow  of 
some  hidden  thing  that  may  darken  my  life.  I 
know  their  cruel,  pitiless  hearts.  They  stop  at 
nothing  when  they  want  their  way.  I  have  known 
them  to  do  the  most  cold-blooded  deeds." 

Poor  Eloise!  The  net  about  her  had  been  skil- 
fully drawn.  i 

"I  don't  know  Father  Josef's  motive,  but  I  can 
trust  him.  And  no  shadow  shall  trouble  you  long, 
Little  Lees.  Jondo  and  Uncle  Esmond  'tote 
together, '  Aunty  Boone  said  long  ago.  They  know 
something  about  the  Ramero  blood,  and  Jondo  has 
promised  to  tell  me  his  story  some  day.  He  must 
do  it  to-night,  and  to-morrow  we'll  see  the  end 

238 


SAN    MIGUEL 

of  this  tangle.  Trust  me,  Eloise,"  I  said,  com- 
fortingly. 

"But,  Gail,  I'm  afraid  Ferdinand  will  kill  you  if 
you  get  in  his  way."  Eloise  clung  to  my  arm 
imploringly. 

' '  Six  big  Kiowas  got  fooled  at  that  job.  Do  you 
think  this  thin  streak  of  humanity  would  try  it?" 
I  asked,  lightly. 

Eloise  stood  up  beside  me. 

"I  must  go  away  now,"  she  said. 

"Then  I'll  go  with  you.  Thank  you,  Father 
Josef,  for  your  kindness,"  I  said  as  the  priest 
came  toward  us. 

"You  are  welcome,  my  son.  In  the  sanctuary 
circle  no  harm  can  come.  Peace  be  with  both  of 
you." 

There  was  a  world  of  benediction  in  his  deep 
tones,  and  his  smile  was  genial,  as  he  followed  us  to 
the  street  and  stood  as  if  watching  for  some  one. 

"I  will  meet  you  at  San  Miguel's  to-morrow 
afternoon,  Gail,"  Eloise  said,  as  we  reached  a  low 
but  pretentious  adobe  dwelling.  "This  is  my 
home  now." 

"Your  new  Mexican  homes  are  thick- walled, 
and  you  live  all  on  the  inside,"  I  said,  as  we  paused 
at  the  doorway.  "They  make  me  think  of  the 
lower  invertebrates,  hard-shelled,  soft-bodied  ani- 
mals. Up  on  the  Kansas  prairies  and  the  Missouri 
bluffs  we  have  a  central  vetebra — the  family 
hearth-stone — and  we  live  all  around  it.  That  is 
the  people  who  have  them  do.  There  isn't  much 
home  life  for  a  freighter  of  the  plains  anywhere. 

239 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Good  by,  Little  Lees."  I  took  her  offered  hand. 
1 '  I'm  glad  you  have  let  me  be  your  friend,  a  hard- 
shelled  bull-whacker  like  me." 

The  street  was  full  of  shadows  and  the  evening 
air  was  chill  as  the  door  closed  on  that  sweet  face 
and  cloud  of  golden  hair.  But  the  pressure  of 
warm  white  fingers  lingered  long  in  my  sense  of 
touch  as  I  retraced  my  steps  to  the  trail's  end. 
At  the  church  door  I  saw  Father  Josef  still  waiting, 
as  if  watching  for  somebody. 

All  that  Eloise  had  told  me  ran  through  my 
mind,  but  I  felt  sure  that  neither  financial  nor 
churchly  influence  in  Santa  Fe  could  be  turned  to 
evil  purposes  so  long  as  men  like  Felix  Narveo 
and  Father  Josef  were  there.  And  then  I  thought 
of  Esmond  Clarenden,  himself  neither  Mexican 
nor  Roman  Catholic,  who,  nevertheless,  drew  to 
himself  such  fair-dealing,  high-minded  men  as 
these,  always  finding  the  best  to  aid  him,  and 
combating  the  worst  with  daring  fearlessness. 
Surely  with  the  priest  and  the  merchant  and  Jondo 
as  my  uncle's  representative,  no  harm  could  come 
to  the  girl  whom  I  knew  that  I  should  always  love. 

And  with  my  mind  full  of  Eloise  and  her  need  I 
sought  out  Jondo  and  listened  to  his  story. 


XIV 

OPENING   THE   RECORD 


Fighting  for  leave  to  live  and  labor  well, 
God  flung  me  peace  and  ease. 

— "A  SONG  OF  THE  ENGLISH." 


I  FOUND  Jondo  in  the  little  piazza  opening  into 
the  hotel  court. 

"Where  did  you  leave  Krane  and  Bev?"  he 
asked,  as  I  sat  down  beside  him. 

"I  didn't  leave  them;  they  left  me,"  I  answered. 

"Oh,  you  young  bucks  are  all  alike.  You  know 
just  enough  to  be  good  to  yourselves.  You  don't 
think  much  about  anybody  else,"  Jondo  said, 
with  a  smile. 

"I  think  of  others,  Jondo,  and  for  that  reason  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  that  story  about  Ferdinand 
Ramero  that  you  promised  to  tell  me  one  night 
back  on  the  trail." 

Jondo  gave  a  start. 

"I'd  like  to  forget  that  man,  not  talk  about 
him,"  he  replied. 

"But  it  is  to  help  somebody  else,  not  just  to  be 
good  to  myself,  that  I  want  to  know  it,"  I  insisted, 

241 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

using  his  own  terms.     And  then  I  told  him  what 
Eloise  had  told  me  in  the  San  Miguel  church. 

"Are  the  Ramero's  so  powerful  here  that  they 
can  control  the  Church  in  their  scheme  to  get  what 
they  want?"  I  asked. 

"It  would  be  foolish  to  underestimate  the 
strength  of  Ferdinand  Ramero,"  Jondo  replied, 
adding,  grimly,  "It  has  been  my  lot  to  know  the 
best  of  men  who  could  make  me  believe  all  men  are 
good,  and  the  worst  of  men  who  make  me  doubt  all 
humanity."  He  clenched  his  fists  as  if  to  hold 
himself  in  check,  and  something,  neither  sigh  nor 
groan  nor  oath  nor  prayer,  but  like  them  all, 
burst  from  his  lips. 

"If  you  ever  have  a  real  cross,  Gail,  thank  the 
Lord  for  the  green  prairies  and  the  open  plains, 
and  the  danger-stimulus  of  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail. 
They  will  seal  up  your  wounds,  and  soften  your 
hard,  rebellious  heart,  and  make  you  see  things  big, 
and  despise  the  narrow  little  crooks  in  your  path." 

One  must  have  known  Jondo,  with  his  bluff  man- 
ner and  sunny  smile  and  daring  spirit,  to  feel  the 
force,  of  these  brave  sad  words.  I  felt  intuitively 
that  I  had  laid  bare  a  wound  of  his  by  my  story. 

"It  is  for  Eloise,  not  for  my  curiosity,  that  I 
have  come  to  you,"  I  said,  gently. 

"And  you  didn't  come  too  soon,  boy."  Jondo 
was  himself  in  a  moment.  "It  is  another  cruel 
act  in  the  old  tragedy  of  Ramero  against  Clarenden 
and  others." 

"Will  the  Church  be  bribed  by  the  St.  Vrain 
estate  and  urge  this  wedding?"  I  asked., 

242 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

"The  Church  considers  money  as  so  much  power 
for  the  Kingdom.  I  have  heard  that  the  St.  Vrain 
estate  was  left  in  Ramero's  hands  with  the  proviso 
that  if  Eloise  should  marry  foolishly  before  she  was 
twenty-five  she;  would  lose  her  property.  Do  you 
see  the  trick  in  the  game,  and  why  Ramero  can 
say  that  if  he  chooses  he  can  take  her  heritage 
away  from  her?  But  as  he  keeps  everything  in  his 
own  hands  it  is  hard  to  know  the  truth  about  any- 
thing connected  with  money  matters." 

"Would  Father  Josef  be  party  to  such  a  transac- 
tion?" I  asked,  angrily. 

"Ramero  thinks  so,  but  he  is  mistaken,"  Jondo 
replied. 

"What  makes  you  think  he  won't  be?"  I  in- 
sisted. 

"Because  I  knew  Father  Josef  before  he  became 
a  priest,  and  why  he  took  the  vows,"  Jondo  de- 
clared. "Unless  a  man  brings  some  manhood  to 
the  altar,  he  will  not  find  it  in  the  title  nor  the 
dress  there,  it  makes  no  difference  whether  he  be 
Catholic,  Protestant,  Hebrew,  or  heathen.  Father 
Josef  was  a  gentleman  before  he  was  a  priest." 

"Well,  if  he's  all  right,  why  did  he  bring  Eloise 
back  here  into  the  heart  of  all  this  trouble?"  I 
questioned. 

Jondo  sat  thinking  for  a  little  while,  then  he 
said,  assuringly: 

"I  don't  know  his  motive,  unless  he  felt  he  could 
protect  her  here  himself;  but  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  he 
can  be  trusted.  Let  me  tell  you  something, 
Gail.  When  Esmond  Clarenden  and  I  were  boys 

243 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

back  in  a  New  England  college  we  knew  two  fel- 
lows from  the  Southwest  whose  fathers  were  in 
official  circles  at  Washington.  One  was  Felix 
Narveo,  thoroughbred  Mexican,  thoroughbred 
gentleman,  a  bit  lacking  in  initiative  sometimes,  for 
he  came  from  the  warmer,  lazier  lands,  but  as  true 
as  the  compass  in  his  character.  The  other  fellow 
was  Dick  Verra,  French  father,  English  mother;  I 
think  he  had  a  strain  of  Indian  blood  farther  back 
somewhere,  but  he  would  have  been  a  prince  in 
any  tribe  or  nation.  A  happy,  wholesome,  red- 
blooded,  young  fellow,  with  the  world  before  him 
for  his  conquest. 

"We  knew  another  fellow,  too,  Fred  Ramer, 
self- willed,  imperious,  extravagant  in  his  habits, 
greedy  and  unscrupulous;  but  he  was  handsome 
and  masterful,  with  a  compelling  magnetism  that 
made  us  admire  him  and  bound  us  to  him.  He  had 
never  known  what  it  meant  to  have  a  single  wish 
denied  him.  And  with  his  make-up,  he  would 
stop  at  nothing  to  have  his  own  way,  until  his 
wilful  pride  and  stubbornness  and  love  of  luxury 
ruined  him.  But  in  our  college  days  we  we're  his 
satellites.  He  was  always  in  debt  to  all  of  us,  for 
money  was  his  only  god  and  we  never  dared  to 
press  him  for  payment.  The  only  one  of  us  who 
ever  overruled  him  was  Dick  Verra.  But  Dick 
was  a  born  master  of  men.  There  was  one  other 
chum  of  ours,  but  I'll  tell  you  about  him  later. 
Boys  together,  we  had  many  escapades  and  some 
serious  problems,  until  by  the  time  our  college  days 
were  over  we  were  bound  together  by  those  ties 

244 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

that  are  made  in  jest  and  broken  with  choking 
voices  and  eyes  full  of  tears." 

Jondo  paused  and  I  waited,  silent,  until  he 
should  continue. 

"Things  happened  to  that  little  group  of  college 
men  as  time  went  on.  You  know  your  uncle's 
life,  leading  merchant  of  Kansas  City  and  the 
Southwest;  and  mine,  plainsman  and  freighter  on 
the  Santa  Fe  Trail.  Felix  Narveo's  history  is 
easily  read.  Esmond  Clarenden  came  down  here 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  Mexican  War,  and  together 
he  and  Narveo  laid  the  foundation  for  the  pres- 
ent trail  commerce  that  is  making  the  country  at 
either  end  of  it  rich  and  strong.  Dick  Verra  is  now 
Father  Josef."  Jondo  paused  as  if  to  gather  force 
for  the  rest  of  the  story.  Then  he  said : 

"Back  at  college  we  all  knew  Mary  Marchland, 
a  beautiful  Louisiana  girl  who  visited  in  Washing- 
ton and  New  England,  and  all  of  us  were  in  love 
with  her.  When  our  life-lines  crossed  again 
Clarenden  had  come  to  St.  Louis.  About  that 
time  his  two  older  brothers  and  their  wives  died 
suddenly  of  yellow  fever,  leaving  you  and  Beverly 
alone.  It  was  Felix  Narveo  who  brought  you  up 
to  St.  Louis  to  your  uncle." 

"I  remember  that.  The  steamboat,  and  the 
Spanish  language,  and  Felix  Narveo's  face.  I 
recalled  that  when  I  saw  him  years  ago,"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"You  always  were  all  eyes  and  ears,  remember- 
ing names  and  faces,  where  Beverly  would  not 
recall  anything,"  Jondo  declared. 

245 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

"And  what  became  of  your  Fred  Ramer?"  I 
asked. 

"He  is  Ferdinand  Ramero  here.  He  married 
Narveo's  sister  later.  She  is.  not  the  mother  of 
Marcos,  but  a  second  wife.  She  owned  a  tract  of 
land  inherited  from  the  Narveo  estate  down  in  the 
San  Christobal  country.  There  is  a  lonely  ranch 
house  in  a  picturesque  canon,  and  many  acres  of 
grazing-land.  She  keeps  it  still  as  hers,  although 
her  stepson,  Marcos,  claims  it  now.  It  is  for  her 
sake  that  Narveo  doesn't  dare  to  move  openly 
against  Ramero.  And  in  his  masterful  way  he  has 
enough  influence  with  a  certain  ring  of  Mexicans 
here,  some  of  whom  are  Narveo's  freighters,  to 
reach  pretty  far  into  the  Indian  country.  That's 
why  I  knew  those  Mexicans  were  lying  to  us  about 
the  Kiowas  at  Pawnee  Rock.  I  could  see  Rame- 
ro's  gold  pieces  in  their  hands.  He  joined  the 
Catholic  Church,  and  plays  the  Pharisee  generally. 
But  the  traits  of  his  young  manhood,  intensified, 
are  still  his.  He  is  handsome,  and  attractive, 
and  rich,  and  influential,  but  he  is  also  cold- 
blooded, and  greedy  for  money  until  it  is  his  ruling 
passion,  villainously  unscrupulous,  and  mercilessly 
unforgiving  toward  any  one  who  opposes  his  will; 
and  his  capacity  for  undying  hatred  is  appalling." 

And  this  was  the  man  who  was  seeking  to  con- 
trol the  life  of  Eloise  St.  Vrain.  I  fairly  groaned  in 
my  anger. 

"The  failure  to  win  Mary  Marchland's  love  was 
the  first  time  in  his  life  that  Fred  Ramer' s  will 
had  ever  been  thwarted,  and  he  went  mad  with 

246 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

jealousy  and  anger.  Gail,  they  are  worse  masters 
than  whisky  and  opium,  once  they  get  a  man 
down." 

Jondo  paused,  and  when  he  spoke  again  he  did 
it  hurriedly,  as  one  who,  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
would  glance  at  the  dead  face  of  an  enemy  and 
turn  away. 

"When  Fred  lost  his  suit  with  Mary,  he  deter- 
mined to  wreck  her  life.  He  came  between  her 
and  the  man  she  loved  with  such  adroit  cruelty 
that  they  were  separated,  and  although  they  loved 
each  other  always,  they  never  saw  each  other  again. 
Through  a  terrible  network  of  misunderstandings 
she  married  Theron  St.  Vrain.  He,  by  the  way, 
was  the  other  college  chum  I  spoke  of  just  now. 
He  and  his  foster-brother,  Bertrand,  were  wards  of 
Fred  Ramer's  father.  But  their  guardian,  the 
elder  Ramer,  had  embezzled  most  of  their  property 
and  there  was  bitter  enmity  between  them  and 
him.  Theron  and  Mary  were  the  parents  of 
Eloise  St.  Vrain.  It  is  no  wonder  that  she  is  beau- 
tiful. She  had  Mary  Marchland  for  a  mother. 
Theron  St.  Vrain  died  early,  and  the  management 
of  his  property  fell  into  Fred  Ramer's  hands.  At 
Mary's  death  it  would  descend  to  Eloise,  with  the 
proviso  I  just  mentioned  of  an  unworthy  marriage. 
In  that  case,  Ramer,  at  his  own  discretion,  could 
give  the  estate  to  the  Church.  Nobody  knows 
when  Mary  Marchland  died,  nor  where  she  is 
buried,  except  Fred  and  his  confessor,  Father 
Josef." 

' '  How  far  can  a  man's  hate  run,  Jondo  ?"  I  asked. 

17  247 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Oh,  not  so  far  as  a  man's  love.     Listen,  Gail." 

Never  a  man  had  a  truer  eye  and  a  sweeter 
smile  than  my  big  Jondo. 

"Fred  Ramer  was  desperately  in  need  of  money 
when  he  was  plotting  to  darken  the  life  of  Mary 
Marchland — that  was  just  before  the  birth  of 
Eloise — and  through  her  sorrow  to  break  the  heart 
of  the  man  whom  she  loved — I  said  we  college  boys 
were  all  in  love  with  her,  you  remember.  Let  me 
make  it  short  now.  One  night  Fred's  father  was 
murdered,  by  whom  was  never  exactly  proven. 
But  he  was  last  seen  alive  with  his  ward,  Theron 
St.  Vrain,  who,  with  his  foster-brother,  Bertrand, 
thoroughly  despised  him  for  his  plain  robbery  of 
their  heritage. 

"The  case  was  strong  against  Theron,  for  the 
evidence  was  very  damaging,  and  it  would  have 
gone  hard  with  him  but  for  the  foster-brother. 
Bertrand  St.  Vrain  took  the  guilt  upon  himself  by 
disappearing  suddenly.  He  was  supposed  to  have 
drowned  himself  in  the  lower  Mississippi,  for  his 
body,  recognized  only  by  some  clothing,  was  re- 
covered later  in  a  drift  and  decently  buried.  So 
he  was  effaced  from  the  records  of  man." 

In  the  dim  light  Jondo's  blue  eyes  were  like  dull 
steel  and  his  face  was  a  face  of  stone,  but  he  con- 
tinued : 

"Just  here  Clarenden  comes  into  the  story. 
He  learned  it  through  Felix  Narveo,  and  Felix  got 
it  from  the  Mexicans  themselves,  that  Fred  Ramer 
had  plotted  with  them  to  put  his  father  out  of  the 
way — I  said  he  was  desperately  in  need  of  money — 

248 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

and  to  lay  the  crime  on  Theron  St.  Vrain,  by  whose 
disgrace  the  life  of  Mary  Marchland  would  be 
blighted,  and  Fred  would  have  his  revenge  and 
his  father's  money.  Narveo  was  afraid  to  act 
against  Ramer,  but  nothing  ever  scared  Esmond 
Clarenden  away  from  what  he  wanted  to  do. 
Through  his  friendship  for  St.  Vrain,  to  whom  some 
suspicion  still  clung,  and  that  lost  foster-brother, 
Bertrand,  he  turned  the  screws  on  Fred  Ramer 
that  drove  him  out  of  the  country.  He  landed, 
finally,  at  Santa  Fe,  and  became  Ferdinand  Ra- 
mero.  He  managed  by  his  charming  manners  to 
enchant  the  sister  of  Felix  Narveo — and  you  know 
the  rest." 

Jondo  paused. 

"Didn't  Felix  Narveo  go  to  Fort  Leaven- 
worth  once,  just  before  Uncle  Esmond  brought  us 
with  him  to  Santa  Fe?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  he  went  to  warn  Clarenden  not  to  leave 
you  there  unprotected,  for  a  band  of  Ramero's 
henchmen  were  on  their  way  then  to  the  Missouri 
River — we  passed  them  at  Council  Grove — to  kid- 
nap you  three  and  take  you  to  old  Mexico,"  Jondo 
said.  "An  example  of  Fred's  efforts  to  get  even 
with  Clarenden  and  of  the  loyalty  of  Narveo  to 
his  old  college  chum.  The  same  gang  of  Mexicans 
had  kidnapped  Little  Blue  Flower  and  given  her 
to  the  Kiowas." 

"You  told  me  that  Uncle  Esmond  forced  Ferdi- 
nand Ramero  out  of  the  country  on  account  of  a 
wrong  done  to  you,  Jondo,"  I  reminded  the  big 
plainsman. 

249 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

' '  He  did, ' '  Jondo  replied.  ' '  I  told  you  that  we  all 
loved  Mary  Marchland.  Fred  Ramer  broke  under 
his  loss  of  her,  and  became  the  devil's  own  tool  of 
hate  and  revenge,  and  what  generally  gets  tied  up 
with  these  sooner  or  later,  a  passion  for  money  and 
irregular  means  of  getting  it.  Money  is  as  great 
an  asset  for  hate  as  for  love,  and  Fred  sold  his  soul 
for  it  long  ago.  Clarenden  came  to  the  frontier 
and  lost  himself  in  the  building  of  the  plains 
commerce,  and  his  heart  he  gave  to  the  three 
orphan  children  to  whom  he  gave  a  home.  When 
New  Mexico  came  under  our  flag  Narveo  came 
with  it,  a  good  citizen  and  a  loyal  patriot.  He 
married  a  Mexican  woman  of  culture  and  lives  a 
contented  life.  Dick  Verra  went  into  the  Church. 
I  came  to  the  plains,  and  the  stimulus  of  danger, 
and  the  benediction  of  the  open  sky,  and  the  heal- 
ing touch  of  the  prairie  winds,  and  the  solemn 
stillness  of  the  great  distances  have  made  me  some- 
thing more  of  a  man  than  I  should  have  been. 
Maybe  I  was  hurt  the  worst.  Clarenden  thought 
I  was.  Sometimes  I  think  Dick  Verra  got  the 
best  of  all  of  us." 

Jondo's  voice  trailed  off  into  silence  and  I  knew 
what  his  hurt  was — that  he  was  the  man  whom 
Mary  Marchland  had  loved,  from  whom  Fred 
Ramer,  by  his  cruel  machinations,  had  separated 
her — "and  although  they  loved  each  other  always, 
they  never  saw  each  other  again."  Poor  Jondo! 
What  a  man  among  men  this  unknown  freighter  of 
the  plains  might  have  been — and  what  a  loss  to  the 
plains  in  the  best  of  the  trail  years  if  Jondo  had 

2  CO 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

never  dared  its  dangers  for  the  safety  of  the 
generations  to  come. 

But  the  thought  of  Eloise,  driven  out  momen- 
tarily by  Jondo's  story,  came  rushing  in  again. 

"You  said  you  put  a  ring  around  Ramero  to 
keep  him  in  Santa  Fe.  Can't  we  get  Eloise  out- 
side of  it?"  I  urged,  anxiously. 

"Maybe  I  should  have  said  that  Father  Josef 
put  it  around  him  for  me,"  Jondo  replied.  "He 
confessed  his  crimes  fully  to  the  Church.  He 
couldn't  get  by  Father  Josef.  Here  he  is  much 
honored  and  secure  and  we  let  him  alone.  The 
disgrace  he  holds  the  secret  of — he  alone — is  that 
the  father  of  Eloise  killed  his  father,  the  crime  for 
which  the  foster-brother  fell.  Ramero  as  guardian 
of  Eloise  and  her  property  legally  could  have  kept 
her  here.  Only  a  man  like  Clarenden  would 
have  dared  to  take  her  away,  though  he  had  the 
pleading  call  of  her  mother's  last  wish.  Gail,  I 
have  told  you  the  heart-history  of  half  a  dozen 
men.  If  this  had  stopped  with  us  we  could  forgive 
after  a  while,  but  it  runs  down  to  you  and  Beverly 
and  Eloise  and  Marcos,  who  will  carry  out  his 
father's  plans  to  the  letter.  So  the  battle  is  all  to 
be  fought  over  again.  Let  me  leave  you  a  minute 
or  two.  I'll  not  be  gone  long." 

I  sat  alone,  staring  out  at  the  shadowy  court  and, 
above  it,  the  blue  night-sky  of  New  Mexico  inlaid 
with  stars,  until  a  rush  of  feet  in  the  hall  and  ,a 
shout  of  inquiry  told  me  that  Beverly  Clarenden 
was  hunting  for  me. 

Meantime  the  girl  in  Mexican  dress,  who  had 
251 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

come  out  of  the  church  with  Father  Josef  when  he 
came  to  greet  Eloise  and  me,  had  passed  unnoticed 
through  the  Plaza  and  out  on  the  way  leading  to 
the  northeast.  Here  she  came  to  the  blind  adobe 
wall  of  La  Garita,  whose  olden  purpose  one  still 
may  read  in  the  many  bullet-holes  in  its  brown 
sides.  Here  she  paused,  and  as  the  evening  shad- 
ows lengthened  the  dress  and  wall  blended  their 
dull  tones  together. 

Beverly  Clarenden,  who  had  gone  with  Rex 
Krane  up  to  Fort  Marcy  that  evening,  had  left  his 
companion  to  watch  the  sunset  and  dream  of 
Mat  back  on  the  Missouri  bluff,  while  he  wandered 
down  La  Garita.  He  did  not  see  the  Mexican 
woman  standing  motionless,  a  dark  splotch  against 
a  dun  wall,  until  a  soft  Hopi  voice  called,  eagerly, 
"Beverly,  Beverly." 

The  black  scarf  fell  from  the  bright  face,  and 
Indian  garb — not  Po-a-be,  the  student  of  St. 
Ann's  and  the  guest  of  the  Clarenden  home,  with 
the  white  Grecian  robe  and  silver  headband  set 
with  coral  pendants,  as  Beverly  had  seen 'her  last 
in  the  side  porch  on  the  night  of  Mat's  wedding, 
but  Little  Blue  Flower,  the  Indian  of  the  desert 
lands,  stood  before  him. 

"Where  the  devil — I  mean  the  holy  saints  and 
angels,  did  you  come  from?"  Beverly  cried,  in  de- 
light, at  seeing  a  familiar  face. 

"I  came  here  to  do  Father  Josef  some  service. 
He  has  been  good  to  me.  I  bring  a  message." 

She  reached  out  her  hand  with  a  letter.  Beverly 
took  the  letter  and  the  hand.  He  put  the  mes- 

252 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

sage   in  his   pocket,  but  he  did  not  release  the 
hand. 

"That's  something  for  Jondo.  I'll  see  that  he 
gets  it,  all  right.  Tell  me  all  about  yourself  now, 
Little  Run-Off -and-Never-Come-Back."  It  was 
Beverly's  way  to  make  people  love  him,  because  he 
loved  people. 

It  was  late  at  last,  too  late  for  prudence,  older 
heads  would  agree,  when  these  two  separated,  and 
my  cousin  came  to  pounce  upon  me  in  the  hotel 
court  to  tell  me  of  his  adventure. 

"And  I  learned  a  lot  of  things,"  he  added. 
"That  Indian  in  the  Plaza  to-day  is  Santan,  or 
Satan,  dead  sure;  and  you'd  never  guess,  but  he's 
the  same  redskin — Apache  red — that  was  out  at 
Agua  Fria  that  time  we  were  there  long  ago.  The 
very  same  little  sneak!  He  followed  us  clear  to 
Bent's  Fort.  He  put  up  a  good  story  to  Jondo,  but 
I'll  bet  he  was  somebody's  tool.  You  know  what 
a  critter  he  was  there.  But  listen  now!  He's  got 
his  eye  on  Little  Blue  Flower.  He's  plain  wild 
Injun,  and  she's  a  Saint  Ann's  scholar.  Isn't  that 
presumption,  though!  She's  afraid  of  him,  too. 
This  country  fairly  teams  with  romance,  doesn't 
it?" 

"Bev,  don't  you  ever  take  anything  seriously?" 
I  asked. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  do.  I  found  that  Santan,  dead 
loaded  with  jealousy,  sneaking  after  us  in  the  dark 
to-night  when  I  took  Little  Blue  Flower  for  a 
stroll.  I  took  him  seriously,  and  told  him  exactly 

253 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

where  he'd  find  me  next  time  he  was  looking  for 
me.  That  I'd  stand  him  up  against  La  Garita  and 
make  a  sieve  out  of  him,"  Beverly  said,  carelessly. 

"Beverly  Clarenden,  you  are  a  fool  to  get  that 
Apache's  ill-will,"  I  cried. 

"I  may  be,  but  I'm  no  coward,"  Beverly  re- 
torted. ' '  Oh,  here  comes  Jondo.  I've  got  a  letter 
from  Father  Josef.  Invitation  to  some  churchly 
dinner,  I  expect." 

Beverly  threw  the  letter  into  Jondo' s  hands  and 
turned  to  leave  us. 

"Wait  a  minute!"  Jondo  commanded,  and  my 
cousin  halted  in  surprise. 

"When  did  you  get  this?  I  should  have  had  it 
two  hours  ago,"  Jondo  said,  sternly.  "Father 
Josef  must  have  waited  a  long  time  up  at  the 
church  door  for  his  messenger  to  come  back  and 
bring  him  word  from  me." 

Beverly  frankly  told  him  the  truth,  as  from  child- 
hood we  had  learned  was  the  easiest  way  out  of 
trouble. 

Jondo' s  smile  came  back  to  his  eyes,  but  his 
lips  did  not  smile  as  he  said:  "Gail,  you  can  ex- 
plain things  to  Bev.  This  is  serious  business,  but 
it  had  to  come  sooner  or  later.  The  battle  is  on, 
and  we'll  fight  it  out.  Ferdinand  Ramero  is  de- 
termined that  Eloise  and  his  son  shall  be  married 
early  to-morrow  morning.  The  bribe  to  the 
Church  is  one-half  of  the  St.  Vrain  estate.  The 
club  over  Eloise  is  the  shame  of  some  disgrace  that 
he  holds  the  key  to.  He  will  stop  at  nothing  to 
have  his  own  way,  and  he  will  stoop  to  any  brutal 

254 


OPENING   THE    RECORD 

means  to  secure  it.  He  has  a  host  of  fellows  ready 
at  his  call  to  do  any  crime  for  his  sake.  That's 
how  far  money  and  an  ungovernable  passion  can 
lead  a  man.  If  I  had  known  this  sooner,  we  would 
have  acted  to-night." 

Beverly  groaned. 

' '  Let  me  go  and  kill  that  man.  There  ought  to 
be  a  bounty  on  such  wild  beasts,"  he  declared. 

"He'd  do  that  for  you  through  a  Mexican  dag- 
ger, or  an  Apache  arrow,  if  you  got  in  his  way," 
Jondo  replied.  "But  what  we  must  do  is  this: 
Twenty  miles  south  on  the  San  Christobal  Arroyo 
there  is  a  lonely  ranch-house  on  the  old  Narveo 
estate,  a  forgotten  place,  but  it  is  a  veritable  fort, 
built  a  hundred  years  ago,  when  every  house  here 
was  a  fort.  To-morrow  at  daybreak  you  must 
start  with  Eloise  and  Sister  Anita  down  there. 
I  will  see  Father  Josef  later  and  tell  him  where 
I  have  sent  you.  Little  Blue  Flower  will  show 
you  the  way.  It  is  a  dangerous  ride,  and  you 
must  make  it  as  quickly  and  as  silently  as  pos- 
sible. A  bullet  from  some  little  canon  could  find 
you  easily  if  Ramero  should  know  your  trail. 
Will  you  go?" 

There  was  no  need  for  the  question  as  Jondo 
well  knew,  but  his  face  was  bright  with  courage 
and  hope,  and  a  thankfulness  he  could  not  express 
shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  us,  big,  stalwart, 
eager  and  unafraid. 


XV 

THE  SANCTUARY  ROCKS  OF  SAN  CHRISTOBAL 


Marie  where  she  stands!     Around  her  form  I  draw 

The  awful  circle  of  our  solemn  church! 

Set  but  a  foot  within  that  holy  ground, 

And  on  thy  head — yea,  though  it  wore  a  crown — 

I  launch  the  curse  of  Rome. 

— "RICHELIEU." 


THE  faint  rose  hue  of  early  dawn  was  touching 
the  highest  peaks  of  the  Sandia  and  Jemez 
mountain  ranges,  while  the  valley  of  the  Rio 
Grande  still  lay  asleep  under  dull  night  shadows, 
when  five  ponies  and  their  riders  left  the  door  of 
San  Miguel  church  and  rode  southward  in  the 
slowly  paling  gloom.  In  the  stillness  of  the  hour 
the  ponies'  feet,  muffled  in  the  sand  of  the  way, 
seemed  to  clatter  noisily,  and  their  trappings 
creaked  loudly  in  the  dead  silence  of  the  place. 
Little  Blue  Flower,  no  longer  in  her  Mexican  dress, 
led  the  line.  Behind  her  Beverly  and  the  white- 
faced  nun  of  St.  Ann's  rode  side  by  side;  and  be- 
hind these  came  Eloise  St.  Vrain  and  myself. 
From  the  church  door  Jondo  had  watched  us  until 
we  melted  into  the  misty  shadows  of  the  trail. 
"Go  carefully  and  fearlessly  and  ride  hard  if  you 
256 


SAN   CHRISTOBAL 

must.  But  the  struggle  will  be  here  with  me  to- 
day, not  where  you  are,"  he  assured  us,  when  we 
started  away. 

As  he  turned  to  leave  the  church,  an  Indian  rose 
from  the  shadows  beyond  it  and  stepped  before 
him. 

"You  remember  me,  Santan,  the  Apache,  at 
Fort  Bent?"  he  questioned. 

Jondo  looked  keenly  to  be  sure  that  his  memory 
fitted  the  man  before  him. 

"Yes,  you  are  Santan.  You  brought  me  a  mes- 
sage from  Father  Josef  once." 

The  Indian's  face  did  not  change  by  the  twitch 
of  an  eyelash  as  he  replied. 

"I  would  bring  another  message  from  him.  He 
would  see  you  an  hour  later  than  you  planned. 
The  young  riders,  where  shall  I  tell  him  they  have 
gone?" 

"To  the  old  ranch-house  on  the  San  Christobal 
Arroyo,"  Jondo  replied. 

The  Indian  smiled,  and  turning  quickly,  he  dis- 
appeared up  the  dark  street.  A  sudden  thrill 
shook  Jondo. 

"Father  Josef  said  I  could  trust  that  boy  en- 
tirely. Surely  old  Dick  Verra,  part  Indian  him- 
self, couldn't  be  mistaken.  But  that  Apache  lied 
to  me.  I  know  it  now;  and  I  told  him  where  our 
boys  are  taking  Eloise.  I  never  made  a  blunder 
like  that  before.  Damned  fool  that  I  am!" 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  anger  and  disgust,  as  he 
sat  down  in  the  doorway  of  the  church  to  await  the 
coming  of  Ferdinand  Ramero  and  his  son,  Marcos. 

257 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Out  on  the  trail  our  ponies  beat  off  the  miles 
with  steady  gait.  As  the  way  narrowed,  we  struck 
into  single  file,  moving  silently  forward  under  the 
guidance  of  Little  Blue  Flower,  now  plunging  into 
dark  canons,  where  the  trail  was  rocky  and  peril- 
ous, now  climbing  the  steep  sidling  paths  above  the 
open  plain.  Morning  came  swiftly  over  the 
Gloriettas.  Darkness  turned  to  gray;  shapeless 
masses  took  on  distinctness;  the  night  chill 
softened  to  the  crisp  breeze  of  dawn.  Then  came 
the  rare  June  day  in  whose  bright  opening  hour 
the  crystal  skies  of  New  Mexico  hung  above  us, 
and  about  us  lay  a  landscape  with  radiant  lights 
on  the  rich  green  of  the  mesa  slopes,  and  gray 
levels  atint  with  mother-of-pearl  and  gold. 

The  Indian  pueblos  were  astir.  Mexican  faces 
showed  now  and  then  at  the  doorways  of  far-scat- 
tered groups  of  adobe  huts.  Outside  of  these  all 
was  silence — a  motionless  land  full  of  wild,  rugged 
beauty,  and  thrilling  with  the  spell  of  mystery  and 
glamour  of  romance.  And  overbrooding  all,  the 
spirit  of  the  past,  that  made  each  winding  trail  a 
footpath  of  the  centuries;  each  sheer  cliff  a  watch- 
tower  of  the  ages;  each  wide  sandy  plain,  a  rally- 
ing-ground  for  the  tribes  long  ago  gone  to  dust; 
each  narrow  valley  a  battle-field  for  the  death- 
struggle  between  the  dusky  sovereigns  of  a  wilder- 
ness kingdom  and  the  pale-faced  conquerors  of 
the  coat  of  mail  and  the  dominant  soul.  The 
sense  of  danger  lessened  with  distance  and  no 
knight  of  old  Spain  ever  rode  more  proudly  in  the 
days  of  chivalry  than  Beverly  Clarenden  and  I  rode 

258 


SAN   CHRISTOBAL 

that  morning,  fearing  nothing,  sure  of  our  power  to 
protect  the  golden -haired  girl,  thrilled  by  this 
strange  flight  through  a  land  of  strange  scenes 
fraught  with  the  charm  of  daring  and  danger. 
Beverly  rode  forward  now  with  Little  Blue  Flower. 
I  did  not  wonder  at  her  spell  over  him,  for  she  was 
in  her  own  land  now,  and  she  matched  its  pictur- 
esque phases  with  her  own  picturesque  racial 
charm. 

I  rode  beside  Eloise,  forgetting,  in  the  sweet  air 
and  glorious  June  sunlight,  that  we  were  following 
an  uncertain  trail  away  from  certain  trouble. 

The  white-faced  nun  in  her  somber  dress,  rode 
between,  with  serious  countenance  and  down- 
cast eyes. 

"What  happened  to  you,  Little  Lees,  after  I 
left  you?"  I  asked,  as  we  trotted  forward  toward 
the  San  Christobal  valley. 

"Everything,  Gail,"  she  replied,  looking  up  at 
me  with  shy,  sad  eyes.  "First  Ferdinand  Ramero 
came  to  me  with  the  command  that  I  should  con- 
sent to  be  married  this  morning.  By  this  time  I 
would  have  been  Marcos'  wife."  She  shivered  as 
she  spoke.  "I  can't  tell  you  the  way  of  it,  it  was 
so  final,  so  cruel,  so  impossible  to  oppose.  Ferdi- 
nand).'s  eyes  cut  like  steel  when  they  look  at  you, 
and  you  know  he  will  do  more  than  he  threatens. 
He  said  the  Church  demanded  one-half  of  my  lit- 
tle fortune  and  that  he  could  give  it  the  other  half 
if  he  chose.  He  is  as  imperious  as  a  tyrant  in  his 
pleasanter  moods;  in  his  anger  he  is  a  maniac.  I 
believe  he  would  murder  Marcos  if  the  boy  got  in 

259 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

his  way,  and  his  threats  of  disgracing  me  were 
terrible." 

"But  what  else  happened?"  I  wanted  to  turn 
her  away  from  her  wretched  memory. 

"I  have  not  seen  anybody  else  except  Little 
Blue  Flower.  She  has  an  Indian  admirer  who  is 
Ferdinand's  tool  and  spy.  He  let  her  come  in  to 
see  me  late  last  night  or  I  should  not  have  been 
here  now.  I  had  almost  given  up  when  she 
brought  me  word  that  you  and  Beverly  would 
meet  me  at  the  church  at  daylight.  I  have  not 
slept  since.  What  will  be  the  end  of  this  day's 
work?  Isn't  there  safety  for  me  somewhere?" 
The  sight  of  the  fair,  sad  face  with  the  hunted 
look  in  the  dark  eyes  cut  me  to  the  soul. 

"Jondo  said  last  night  that  the  battle  was  on 
and  he  would  fight  it  out  in  Santa  F6  to-day.  It 
is  our  work  to  go  where  the  Hopi  blossom  leads 
us,  and  Bev  Clarenden  and  I  will  not  let  anything 
happen  to  you." 

I  meant  what  I  said,  and  my  heart  is  always 
young  when  I  recall  that  morning  ride  toward  the 
San  Christobal  Arroyo  and  my  abounding  vigor 
and  confidence  in  my  courage  and  my  powers. 

Our  trail  ran  into  a  narrow  plain  now  where  a 
yellow  band  marked  the  way  of  the  San  Christobal 
River  toward  the  Rio  Grande.  On  either  hand  tall 
cliffs,  huge  weather-worn  points  of  rock,  and  steep 
slopes,  spotted  with  evergreen  shrubs,  bordered 
the  river's  course.  The  silent  bigness  of  every 
feature  of  the  landscape  and  the  beauty  of  the 
June  day  in  the  June  time  of  our  lives,  and  our 

260 


SAN   CHRISTOBAL 

sense  of  security  in  having  escaped  the  shadows 
and  strife  in  Santa  Fe,  all  combined  to  make  us 
free-spirited.  Only  Sister  Anita  rode,  alert  and 
sorrowful-faced,  between  Beverly  and  the  gaily- 
robed  Indian  girl,  and  myself  with  Eloise,  the 
beautiful. 

As  we  rounded  a  bend  in  the  narrow  valley, 
Little  Blue  Flower  halted  us,  and  pointing  to  an 
old  half -ruined  rock  structure  beside  the  stream, 
she  said : 

"See,  yonder  is  the  chapel  where  Father  Josef 
comes  sometimes  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  the  Hopi 
people.  The  house  we  go  to  find  is  farther  up  a 
canon  over  there." 

"I  remember  the  place,"  Eloise  declared. 
"Father  Josef  brought  me  here  once  and  left  me 
awhile.  I  wasn't  afraid,  although  I  was  alone, 
for  he  told  me  I  was  always  safe  in  a  church.  But 
I  was  never  allowed  to  come  back  again." 

Sister  Anita  crossed  herself  and,  glancing  over 
her  shoulder,  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  alarm.  We 
turned  about  to  see  a  group  of  horsemen  dashing 
madly  up  the  trail  behind  us.  The  wind  in  their 
faces  blew  back  the  great  cloud  of  dust  made  by 
their  horses  hoofs,  hiding  their  number  and  the 
way  behind  them.  Their  steeds  were  wet  with 
foam,  but  their  riders  spurred  them  on  with 
merciless  fury.  In  the  forefront  Ferdinand  Ra- 
mero's  tall  form,  towering  above  the  small  statured 
evil-faced  Mexican  band  he  was  leading,  was  out- 
lined against  the  dust-cloud  following  them,  and 
I  caught  the  glint  of  light  on  his  drawn  revolver. 

261 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Ride!     Ride  like  the  devil!"  Beverly  shouted. 

At  the  same  time  he  and  the  Hopi  girl  whirled 
out  and,  letting  us  pass,  fell  in  as  a  rear  guard  be- 
tween us  and  our  pursuers.  And  the  race  was  on. 

Jondo  had  said  the  lonely  ranch-house  whither 
we  were  tending  was  as  strong  as  a  fort.  Surely 
it  could  not  be  far  away,  and  our  ponies  were  not 
spent  with  hard  riding.  Before  us  the  valley  nar- 
rowed slightly,  and  on  its  rim  jagged  rock  cliffs 
rose  through  three  hundred  feet  of  earthquake- 
burst,  volcanic-tossed  confusion  to  the  high  table- 
land beyond. 

As  we  strained  forward,  half  a  dozen  Mexican 
horsemen  suddenly  appeared  on  the  trail  before 
us  to  cut  off  our  advance.  Down  between  us  and 
the  new  enemy  stood  the  old  stone  chapel,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land,  where  for 
two  hundred  long  years  it  had  set  up  an  altar  to  the 
Most  High  on  this  lonely  savage  plain. 

"The  chapel!  The  chapel!  We  must  run  to 
that  now,"  cried  Sister  Anita. 

Her  long  veil  was  streaming  back  in  the  wind, 
and  her  rosary  and  crucifix  beating  about  her 
shoulders  with  the  hard  riding,  but  her  white  face 
was  brave  with  a  divine  trust.  Yet  even  as  she 
urged  us  I  saw  how  imposible  was  her  plea,  for 
the  men  in  front  were  already  nearer  to  the  place 
than  we  were.  At  the  same  time  a  pony  dashed 
up  beside  me,  and  Little  Blue  Flower's  voice  rang 
in  my  ears. 

"The  rocks!  Climb  up  and  hide  in  the  rocks!" 

She  dropped  back  on  one  side  of  Beverly,  with 
262" 


SAN    CHRISTOBAL 

Sister  Anita  on  the  other,  guarding  our  rear. 
As  I  turned  our  flight  toward  the  cliff,  I  caught 
sight  of  an  Indian  in  a  wedge  of  rock  just  across  the 
river,  and  I  heard  the  singing  flight  of  an  arrow 
behind  me,  followed  almost  instantly  by  another 
arrow.  I  looked  back  to  see  Sister  Anita's  pony 
staggering  and  rearing  in  agony,  with  Little  Blue 
Flower  trying  vainly  to  catch  its  bridle-rein,  and 
Sister  Anita,  clutching  wildly  at  her  rosary,  a  great 
stream  of  blood  flowing  from  an  arrow  wound  in 
her  neck. 

Men  think  swiftly  in  moments  like  these.  The 
impulse  to  halt,  and  the  duty  to  press  on  for  the 
protection  of  the  girl  beside  me,  holding  me  in 
doubt.  Instantly  I  saw  the  dark  crew,  with  Ferdi- 
nand Ramero  leading  fiercely  forward,  almost 
upon  us,  and  I  heard  Beverly  Clarenden's  voice 
filling  the  valley — "Run,  Gail,  run!  You  can 
beat  'em  up  there." 

It  was  a  cry  of  insistences  and  assurances  and 
power,  and  withal  there  was  that  minor  tone  of 
sympathy  which  had  sounded  in  the  boy's  defiant 
voice  long  ago  in  the  gray -black  shadows  below 
Pawnee  Rock,  when  his  chivalric  soul  had  been 
stirred  by  the  cruel  wrongs  of  Little  Blue  Flower 
and  he  had  cried : 

"Uncle  Esmond,  let's  take  her,  and  take  our 
chances." 

I  knew  in  a  flash  that  the  three  behind  us  were 
cut  off,  and  Eloise  St.  Vrain  and  I  pressed  on  alone. 
We  crossed  the  narrow  strip  of  rising  ground  to 
where  the  first  rocks  lay  as  they  had  fallen  from 

18  263 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

the  cliff  above,  split  off  by  some  titanic  agony  of 
nature.  Up  and  up  we  went,  our  ponies  stum- 
bling now  and  then,  but  almost  ass'urefooted  as  men, 
as  they  climbed  the  narrow  way.  Now  the  rocks 
hid  us  from  the  plain  as  we  crept  sturdily  through 
narrow  crevices,  and  now  we  clambered  up  an  open 
path  where  nothing  concealed  our  way.  But  higher 
still  and  higher,  foot,  by  foot  we  pressed,  while  with 
oath  and  growl  behind  us  came  our  pursuers. 

At  last  we  could  ride  no  farther,  and  the  miracle 
was  that  our  ponies  could  have  climbed  so  far. 
Above  us  huge  slabs  of  stone,  by  some  internal 
cataclysm  hurled  into  fragments  of  unguessed  tons 
of  weight,  seemed  poised  in  air,  about  to  topple 
down  upon  the  plain  below.  Between  these  wild, 
irregular  masses  a  narrow  footing  zigzagged  up- 
ward to  still  other  wild,  irregular  masses,  a  footing 
of  long  leaps  in  cramped  spaces  between  sharp 
edges  of  upright  clefts,  all  gigantic,  unbending,  now 
shielding  by  their  immense  angles,  now  standing 
sheer  and  stark  before  us,  casting  no  shadows  to 
cover  us  from  the  great  white  glare  of  the  New- 
Mexican  day. 

I  have  said  no  man  knows  where  his  mind  will 
run  in  moments  of  peril.  As  we  left  our  ponies 
and  clambered  up  and  up  in  hope  of  safety  some- 
where, the  face  of  the  rocks  cut  and  carved  by  the 
rude  stone  tools  of  a  race  long  perished,  seemed 
to  hold  groups  of  living  things  staring  at  us  and 
pointing  the  way.  And  there  was  no  end  to  these 
crude  pictographs.  Over  and  over  and  over — the 
human  hand,  the  track  of  the  little  road-runner 

264 


SAN    CHRISTOBAL 

bird,  the  plumed  serpent  coiled  or  in  waving  line, 
the  human  form  with  the  square  body  and  round 
head,  with  staring  circles  for  eyes  and  mouth,  and 
straight-line  limbs. 

We  were  fleeing  for  safety  through  the  sacred 
aisles  of  a  people  God  had  made;  and  when  they 
served  His  purpose  no  longer,  they  had  perished.  I 
did  not  think  of  them  so  that  morning.  I  thought 
only  of  some  hiding-place,  some  inaccessible  point 
where  nothing  could  reach  the  girl  I  must  pro- 
tect. But  these  crawling  serpents,  cut  in  the 
rock  surfaces,  crawled  on  and  on.  These  human 
hands,  poor  detached  hands,  were  lifted  up  in 
mute  token  of  what  had  gone  before.  These  two- 
eyed,  one-mouthed  circles  on  heads  fast  to  body- 
boxes,  from  which  waved  tentacle  limbs,  jigged 
by  us,  to  give  place  to  other  coiled  or  crawling  ser- 
pents and  their  companion  carvings,  with  the  track 
of  the  swift  road-runner  skipping  by  us  everywhere. 

At  last,  with  bleeding  hands  and  torn  clothing, 
we  stood  on  a  level  rock  like  a  tiny  mesa  set  out 
from  the  high  summit  of  the  cliff. 

Eloise  sat  down  at  my  feet  as  I  looked  back 
eagerly  over  the  precipitous  way  we  had  come,  and 
watched  the  band  of  Mexicans  less  rapidly  swarm- 
ing up  the  same  steep,  devious  trail. 

Three  hundred  feet  below  us  lay  the  plain  with 
the  thin  current  of  the  San  Christobal  River 
sparkling  here  and  there  in  the  sunlight.  The 
black  spot  on  the  trail  that  scarcely  moved  must 
be  Beverly  and  Little  Blue  Flower  with  Sister 
Anita.  No,  there  was  only  the  Indian  girl  there, 

265 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

and  something  moving  in  and  out  of  the  shadow  near 
them.  I  could  not  see  for  the  intervening  rocks. 

"Gail!  Gail!  You  will  not  let  them  take  you. 
You  will  not  leave  me,"  Eloise  moaned. 

And  I  was  one  against  a  dozen.  I  stooped  to 
where  she  sat  and  gently  lifted  her  limp  white 
hand,  saying: 

"Eloise,  I  was  on  a  rock  like  this  a  night  and  a 
day  alone  on  the  prairie.  I  could  not  move  nor 
cry  out.  But  something  inside  told  me  to  'hold 
fast ' — the  old  law  of  the  trail.  You  must  do  that 
with  me  now." 

A  shout  broke  over  the  valley  and  the  rocks 
about  us  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  men,  as  if  every 
pictograph  of  the  old  stone  age  had  become  a 
sentient  thing,  a  being  with  a  Mexican  dress,  and 
the  soul  of  a  devil.  Just  across  a  narrow  chasm,  a 
little  below  us,  Ferdinand  Ramero  stood  in  all  the 
insolence  of  a  conqueror,  with  a  smile  that  showed 
his  white  teeth,  and  in  his  steely  eyes  was  the 
glitter  of  a  snake  about  to  spring. 

"You  have  given  us  a  hard  race.  By  jove,  you 
rode  magnificently  and  climbed  heroically.  I  ad- 
mire you  for  it.  It  is  fine  to  bring  down  game  like 
you,  Clarenden.  You  have  your  uncle's  spirit, 
and  a  six-foot  body  that  dwarfs  his  short  stature. 
And  we  come  as  gentlemen  only,  if  we  can  deal 
with  a  gentleman.  It  wasn't  our  men  who  struck 
your  nun  down  there.  But  if  you,  young  man, 
dare  to  show  one  ounce  of  fighting  spirit  now,  be- 
hind you  on  the  rocks — don't  look — as  I  lift  my 
hand  are  my  good  friends  who  will  put  a  bullet 

266 


SAN   CHRISTOBAL 

into  the  brain  beneath  that  golden  hair,  and  you 
will  follow.  Being  a  game-cock  cannot  help  you 
now.  It  will  only  hasten  things.  Deliver  that 
girl  to  me  at  once,  or  my  men  will  close  in  upon 
you  and  no  power  on  earth  can  save  you." 

Eloise  had  sprung  to  her  feet  and  stood  beside 
me,  and  both  of  us  knew  the  helplessness  of  our 
plight.  A  startling  picture  it  must  have  been,  and 
one  the  cliffs  above  the  San  Christobal  will  hardly 
see  again:  the  blue  June  sky  arched  overhead, 
unscarred  by  a  single  cloud-fleck,  the  yellow  plain 
winding  between  the  high  picturesque  cliffs,  where 
silence  broods  all  through  the  long  hours  of  the 
sunny  day;  the  pictured  rocks  with  their  fur- 
nace-blackened faces  white  -  outlined  with  the 
story  of  the  dim  beginnings  of  human  strivings. 
And  standing  alone  and  defenseless  on  the  little 
table  of  stone,  as  if  for  sacrifice,  the  tall,  stalwart 
young  plainsman  and  the  beautiful  girl  with  her 
golden  hair  in  waving  masses  about  her  uncovered 
head,  her  sweet  face  white  as  the  face  of  the  dying 
nun  beside  the  sandy  arroyo  below  us,  her  big  dark 
eyes  full  of  a  strange  fire. 

"I  order  you  to  close  in  and  take  these  two  at 
once."  The  imperious  command  rang  out,  and 
the  rocks  across  the  valley  must  have  echoed  its 
haughty  tone. 

"And  I  order  you  to  halt." 

The  voice  of  Father  Josef,  clear  and  rich  and 
powerful,  burst  upon  the  silence  like  cathedral 
music  on  the  still  midnight  air.  The  priest's  tall 
form  rose  up  on  a  great  mass  of  rock  across  the 

267 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

cleft  before  us — Father  Josef  with  bared  head  and 
flashing  eyes  and  a  physique  of  power. 

Ferdinand  Ramero  turned  like  a  lion  at  bay. 

"You  are  one  man.  My  force  number  a  full 
dozen .  Move  on , "  he  ordered . 

Again  the  voice  of  Father  Josef  ruled  the  listen- 
ing ears. 

"Since  the  days  of  old  the  Church  has  had  the 
power  to  guard  all  that  come  within  the  shelter  of 
the  holy  sanctuary.  And  to  the  Church  of  God 
was  given  also  long  ago  the  might  to  protect,  by 
sanctuary  privilege,  the  needy  and  the  defenseless. 
Ferdinand  Ramero,  note  that  little  table  of  rock 
where  those  two  stand  helpless  in  your  grasp. 
Around  them  now  I  throw,  as  I  have  power  to 
throw,  the  sacred  circle  of  our  Holy  Church  in 
sanctuary  shelter.  Who  dares  to  step  inside  it 
will  be  accursed  in  the  sight  of  God." 

Never,  never  will  I  live  through  another  moment 
like  to  that,  nor  see  the  power  of  the  Unseen  rule 
things  that  are  seen  with  such  unbreakable 
strength. 

The  Mexicans  dropped  to  their  knees  in  humble 
prayer,  and  Ferdinand  Ramero  seemed  turned  to  a 
man  of  stone.  A  hand  was  gently  laid  upon  my 
arm  and  Jondo  and  Rex  Krane  stood  beside  us. 
A  voice  far  off  was  sounding  in  my  ears. 

"Go  back  to  your  homes  and  meet  me  at  the 
church  to-morrow  night.  You,  Ferdinand  Ramero, 
go  now  to  the  chapel  yonder  and  wait  until  I  come." 

What  happened  next  is  lost  in  misty  waves  of 
forgetfulness. 

268 


XVI 

FINISHING   TOUCHES 

"  Yet  there  be  certain  times  in  a  young  meat's  life  when  throiigh 
great  sorrow  or  sin  all  the  boy  in  him  is  burnt  and  seared  away  so 
that  he  passes  at  one  step  to  the  more  sorrowful  state  of  manhcod." 

— KIPLING. 

r"FHE  heat  of  midday  was  tempered  by  a  light 
A  breeze  up  the  San  Christobal  Valley,  and 
there  was  not  a  single  cloud  in  the  June  skies 
to  throw  a  softening  shadow  on  the  yellow  plain. 
A  little  group  of  Mexicans,  riding  northward  with 
sullen  faces,  urged  on  their  jaded  ponies  viciously 
as  they  thought  of  the  gold  that  was  to  have  been 
paid  them  for  this  morning's  work,  and  of  the  gold 
that  to-morrow  night  must  go  to  pay  the  priest 
who  should  shrive  them;  and  they  had  nothing 
gained  wherewith  to  pay.  Their  leader,  whom 
they  had  served,  had  been  trapped  in  his  own 
game,  and  they  felt  themselves  abused  and  de- 
ceived. 

Down  by  the  brown  sands  of  the  river  Father 
Josef  waited  at  the  door  of  the  half -ruined  little 
stone  chapel  for  the  strange  group  coming  slowly 
toward  him:  Ferdinand  Ramero,  riding  like  a 

269 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

captured  but  unconquered  king,  his  head  erect,  his 
flashing  eyes  seeing  nobody;  Jondo  who  could 
make  the  shabbiest  piece  of  horseflesh  take  on 
grace  when  he  mounted  it,  his  tanned  cheek 
flushed,  and  the  spirit  of  supreme  sacrifice  look- 
irg  out  through  his  dark-blue  eyes;  Eloise,  droop- 
ing like  a  white  flower,  but  brave  of  spirit  now, 
sure  that  her  grief  and  anxiety  would  be  lifted 
somehow.  I  rode  beside  her,  glad  to  catch  the 
faint  smile  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at 
me.  And  last  of  all,  Rex  Krane,  with  the  same 
old  Yankee  spirit,  quick  to  help  a  fellow-man 
and  oblivious  to  personal  danger.  So  we  all  came 
to  the  chapel,  but  at  the  door  Rex  wheeled  and 
rode  away,  muttering,  as  he  passed  me : 

"I've  got  business  to  look  after,  and  not  a 
darned  thing  to  confess." 

And  Beverly !    He  was  not  with  us. 

When  Rex  Krane  told  his  bride  good-by  up  in  the 
Clarenden  home  on  the  Missouri  bluff,  Mat  had 
whispered  one  last  request : 

"Look  after  Bev.  He  never  sees  danger  for 
himself,  nor  takes  anything  seriously,  least  of  all 
an  enemy,  whom  he  will  befriend,  and  make  a  joke 
of  it." 

And  so  it  happened  that  Rex  had  stayed  behind 
to  care  for  Beverly's  arrow  wound  when  Bill  Ban- 
ney  had  gone  out  with  Jondo  on  the  Kiowa  trail 
to  search  for  me  this  side  of  Pawnee  Rock. 

So  also  it  happened  that  Rex  had  strolled  down 
from  Fort  Marcy  the  night  before,  in  time  to  see 
Beverly  and  the  girl  in  the  Mexican  dress  loitering 

270 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

along  the  brown  front  of  La  Garita.  And  his 
keen  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  Santan  crouching  in 
an  angle  of  the  wall,  watching  them. 

"Indians  and  Mexes  don't  mix  a  lot.  And  Bev 
oughtn't  mix  with  either  one,"  Rex  commented. 
"I'll  line  the  boy  up  for  review  to-morrow,  so  Mat 
won't  say  I've  neglected  him." 

But  the  Yankee  took  the  precaution  to  follow  the 
trail  to  the  Indian's  possible  abiding-place  on  the 
outskirts  of  Santa  Fe.  And  it  was  Rex  who  most 
aided  Jondo  in  finding  that  the  Indian  had  gone 
with  Ramero's  men  northward. 

"That  fellow  is  Santan,  of  Fort  Bent,  Rex," 
Jondo  said. 

"Yes,  you  thought  he  was  Santa  and  I  took 
him  for  Satan  then.  We  missed  out  on  which 
'n'  to  knock  out  of  him.  Bev  won't  care  no  thin' 
about  his  name.  He  will  knock  hell  out  of  him 
if  he  gets  in  that  Clarenden  boy's  way,"  Rex  had 
replied. 

At  the  chapel  door  now  the  Yankee  turned  away 
and  rode  down  the  trail  toward  the  little  angle 
where  an  Indian  arrow  had  whizzed  at  our  party 
an  hour  before. 

In  the  shadow  of  a  fallen  mass  of  rock  below  the 
cliff  Little  Blue  Flower  had  spread  her  blanket, 
with  Beverly's  coat  tucked  under  it  in  a  roll  for  a 
pillow,  and  now  she  sat  beside  the  dying  nun, 
holding  the  crucifix  to  Sister  Anita's  lips.  The 
Indian  girl's  hands  were  blood-stained  and  the 
nun's  black  veil  and  gown  were  disheveled,  and  her 
white  head-dress  and  coif  were  soaked  with  gore. 

271 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

But  her  white  face  was  full  of  peace  as  the  light 
faded  from  her  eyes. 

And  Beverly!  The  boy  forgot  the  rest  of  the 
world  when  one  of  the  Apache's  arrows  struck 
down  the  pony  and  the  other  pierced  Sister  Anita's 
neck.  Tenderly  as  a  mother  would  lift  a  babe  he 
quickly  carried  the  stricken  woman  to  the  shelter 
of  the  rock,  and  with  one  glance  at  her  he  turned 
away. 

"You  can  do  all  that  she  needs  done  for  her. 
Give  her  her  cross  to  hold,"  he  said,  gently,  to  Lit- 
tle Blue  Flower. 

Then  he  sprang  up  and  dashed  across  the  river, 
splashing  the  bright  waters  as  he  leaped  to  the 
farther  side  .where  San  tan  stood  concealed,  waiting 
for  the  return  of  Ramero's  Mexicans. 

At  the  sound  of  Beverly's  feet  he  leaped  to  the 
open  just  in  time  to  meet  Beverly's  fist  square 
between  the  eyes. 

"Take  that,  you  dirty  dog,  to  shoot  down  an 
innocent  nun.  And  that!"  Beverly  followed  his 
first  blow  with  another. 

The  Apache,  who  had  reeled  back  with  the 
weight  of  the  boy's  iron  fist,  was  too  quick  for 
the  second  thrust,  struggling  to  get  hold  of  his 
arrows  and  his  scalping  -  knife.  But  the  space 
was  too  narrow  and  Beverly  was  upon  him  with 
a  shout. 

"I  told  you  I'd  make  a  sieve  01  you  the  next 
time  you  tried  to  see  me,  and  I'm  going  to 
do  it." 

He  seized  the  Indian's  knife  and  flung  it  clear 
272 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

into  the  river,  where  it  stuck  upright  in  the  sands  of 
the  bed,  parting  the  little  stream  of  water  gurgling 
against  it;  and  with  a  powerful  grip  on  the 
Apache's  shoulders  he  wrenched  the  arrows  from 
their  place  and  tramped  on  them  with  his  heavy 
boot. 

The  Indian's  surprise  and  submission  were  gone 
in  a  flash,  and  the  two  clinched  in  combat. 

On  the  one  hand,  jealousy,  the  inherited  hatred 
of  a  mistreated  race,  the  savage  instinct,  a  gloating- 
joy  in  brute  strife,  blood-lust,  and  a  dogged  will  to 
trample  in  the  dirt  the  man  who  made  the  sun 
shine  black  for  the  Apache.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
mad  rage,  a  sense  of  insult,  a  righteous  greed  for 
vengeance  for  a  cruel  deed  against  an  innocent 
woman,  and  all  the  superiority  of  a  dominant 
people.  The  one  would  conquer  a  powerful 
enemy,  the  other  would  exterminate  a  despicable 
and  dangerous  pest. 

Back  and  forth  across  the  narrow  space  hidden 
from  the  trail  by  fallen  rock  they  threshed  like 
beasts  of  prey.  The  Apache  had  the  swiftness  of 
the  snake,  his  muscles  were  like  steel  springs,  and 
there  was  no  rule  of  honorable  warfare  in  his  code. 
He  bit  and  clawed  and  pinched  and  scratched  and 
choked  and  wrenched,  with  the  grim  face  and  burn- 
ing eyes  of  a  murderer.  But  the  Saxon  youth, 
slower  of  motion,  heavier  of  bone  and  muscle, 
with  a  grip  like  iron  and  a  stony  endurance,  with 
pride  in  a  conquest  by  sheer  clean  skill,  and  with 
a  purpose,  not  to  take  life,  but  to  humble  and 
avenge,  hammered  back  blow  for  blow;  and  there 

273 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

was  nothing  for  many  minutes  to  show  which  was 
offensive  and  which  defensive. 

As  the  struggle  raged  on,  the  one  grew  more  furi- 
ous and  the  other  more  self-confident. 

"Oh,  I'll  make  you  eat  dust  yet!"  Beverly  cried, 
as  Santan  in  triumph  flung  him  backward  and 
sprang  upon  his  prostrate  form. 

They  clinched  again,  and  with  a  mighty  surge 
of  strength  my  cousin  lifted  himself,  and  the  Indian 
with  him,  and  in  the  next  fall  Beverly  had  his  an- 
tagonist gripped  and  helpless. 

"I  can  choke  you  out  now  as  easy  as  you  shot 
that  arrow.  Say  your  prayers. ' '  He  fairly  growled 
out  the  words. 

"I  didn't  aim  at  her,"  the  Apache  half  whined, 
half  boasted.  ' '  I  wanted  you. ' ' 

At  that  moment  Beverly,  spent,  bruised,  and 
bleeding  with  fighting  and  surcharged  with  the 
lust  of  combat,  felt  all  the  instinct  of  murder 
urging  him  on  to  utterly  destroy  a  poison-fanged 
foe  to  humanity.  At  Santan's  words  he  paused 
and,  flinging  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead,  he 
caught  his  breath  and  his  better  self,  in  the  same 
heart-beat.  And  the  instinct  of  the  gentleman — 
he  was  Esmond  Clarenden's  brother's  son — held 
the  destroying  hand. 

"You  aimed  at  me!  Well,  learn  your  lesson  on 
that  right  now.  Promise  never  to  play  the  fool 
that  way  again.  Promise  the  everlasting  God's 
truth,  or  here  you  go." 

The  boy's  clutch  tightened  on  Santan's  throat. 

"By  all  that's  holy,  you'll  go  to  your  happy 
274 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

hunting-ground  right  now,  unless  you  do!"  He 
growled  out  the  words,  and  his  blazing  eyes  glared 
threateningly  at  his  fallen  enemy. 

"I  promise!"  Santan  muttered,  gasping  for 
breath. 

"You  didn't  mean  to  kill  the  nun?  Then  you'll 
go  with  me  and  ask  her  to  forgive  you  before  she 
dies.  You  will.  You  needn't  try  to  get  away 
from  me.  I  let  you  thrash  your  strength  out  be- 
fore we  came  to  this  settlement.  Be  still!" 
Beverly  commanded,  as  Santan  made  a  mad  effort 
to  release  himself. 

"Hurry  up,  and  remember  she  is  dying.  Go 
softly  and  speak  gently,  or  by  the  God  of  heaven, 
you'll  go  with  her  to  the  Judgment  Seat  to  answer 
for  that  deed  right  now!" 

Slowly  the  two  rose.  Their  clothes  were  torn, 
their  hair  disheveled,  the  ground  at  their  feet 
was  red  with  their  blood.  They  were  as  bitter, 
as  distrustful  now  as  when  their  struggle  began. 
For  brute  force  never  conquers  anything.  It 
can  only  hold  in  check  by  fear  of  its  power 
to  destroy  the  body.  Above  the  iron  fist  of 
the  fighter,  and  the  sword  and  cannon  of  the 
soldier,  stands  the  risen  Christ  who  carried  his 
own  cross  up  Mount  Calvary — and  "there  they 
crucified  him." 

The  two  young  men,  spent  with  their  struggle, 
their  faces  stained  with  dirt  and  bloody  sweat, 
crossed  the  river  and  sought  the  shadowy  place 
where  Little  Blue  Flower  sat  beside  Sister  Anita. 
Twice  Santan  tried  to  escape,  and  twice  Beverly 

275 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

brought  him  quickly  to  his  place.  It  must  have 
been  here  that  I  caught  sight  of  them  from  the 
rock  above. 

"One  more  move  like  that  and  the  ghost  of 
Sister  Anita  will  walk  behind  you  on  every  trail 
you  follow  as  long  as  your  flat  feet  hit  the  earth," 
Beverly  declared. 

"All  Indians  are  afraid  of  ghosts  and  I  was  just 
too  tired  to  fight  any  more,"  he  said  to  me  after- 
ward when  he  told  me  the  story  of  that  hour  by 
the  San  Christobal  River. 

Sister  Anita  lay  with  wide-open  eyes,  her  hands 
moving  feebly  as  she  clutched  at  her  crucifix. 
Her  hour  was  almost  spent. 

Santan  stood  motionless  before  her,  as  Beverly 
with  a  grip  on  his  arm  said,  firmly  : 

"Tell  her  you  did  not  aim  at  her,  and  ask  her 
to  forgive  you.  It  will  help  to  save  your  own  soul 
sometime,  maybe." 

Santan  looked  at  Little  Blue  Flower.  But  she 
gave  no  heed  to  him  as  she  put  the  dropped  cruci- 
fix into  the  weakening  fingers.  Murder,  as  such, 
is  as  horrifying  to  the  gentle  Hopi  tribe  as  it  is 
sport  for  the  cruel  Apache. 

Beverly  loosed  his  hold  now. 

"I  did  not  want  to  hurt  you.  Forgive  me!" 
Santan  said,  slowly,  as  though  each  word  were 
plucked  from  him  by  red-hot  pincers. 

Sister  Anita  heard  and  turned  her  eyes. 

"Kneel  down  and  tell  her  again,"  Beverly  said, 
more  gently. 

The  Apache  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  the 
276 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

dying  woman  and  repeated  his  words.  Sister 
Anita  smiled  sweetly. 

"Heaven  will  forgive  you  even  as  I  do,"  she 
murmured,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Go  softly.  This  is  sacred  ground,"  my  cousin 
said. 

The  Indian  rose  and  passed  silently  down  the 
trail,  leaving  Little  Blue  Flower  and  Beverly 
Clarenden  together  with  the  dead.  At  the  stream 
he  paused  and  pulled  his  knife  from  the  sands 
beneath  the  trickling  waters,  and  then  went  on  his 
way. 

But  an  Indian  never  forgets. 

Rex  Krane,  who  had  hurried  hither  from  the 
chapel,  closed  the  eyes  and  folded  the  thin  hands  of 
the  martyred  woman,  and  sent  Beverly  forward  for 
help  to  dispose  of  the  garment  of  clay  that  had 
been  Sister  Anita.  From  that  day  something 
manly  and  serious  came  into  Beverly  Claren- 
den's  face  to  stay,  but  his  sense  of  humor  and  his 
fearlessness  were  unchanged. 

That  was  a  solemn  hour  in  the  shadow  of  the 
rock  down  in  that  yellow  valley,  but  beautiful  in 
its  forgiving  triumph.  We  who  had  gathered  in 
the  dimly  lighted  chs^pel  had  an  hour  more  solemn 
for  that  it  was  made  up  of  such  dramatic  minutes 
as  change  the  trend  of  life-trails  for  all  the  years  to 
come. 

The  chapel  was  very  old.  They  tell  me  that  only 
a  broken  portion  of  the  circular  wall  about  the 
altar  stands  there  to-day,  a  lonely  monument  to 
some  holy  padre's  faith  and  courage  and  sacrifice 

277 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

in  the  forgotten  years  when,  in  far  Hesperia,  men 
dreamed  of  a  Quivera  and  found  only  a  Calvary. 

It  may  be  that  I,  Gail  Clarenden,  was  also 
changed  as  I  listened  to  the  deliberations  of  that 
day;  that  something  of  youth  gave  place  for  the 
stronger  manhood  that  should  stay  me  through 
the  years  that  came  after. 

Eloise  sat  where  I  could  see  her  face.  The  pink 
bloom  had  come  back  to  it,  and  the  golden 
hair,  disordered  by  our  wild  ride  and  rough  climb 
among  the  pictured  rocks  of  the  cliff,  curled  care- 
lessly on  her  white  brow  and  rippled  about  her 
shapely  head.  I  used  to  wonder  what  setting 
fitted  her  beauty  best — why  wonder  that  about  any 
beautiful  woman? — but  the  gracious  loveliness  of 
this  woman  was  never  more  appealing  to  me  than 
in  the  soft  light  and  sacred  atmosphere  of  the 
church. 

Father  Josef's  first  thought  was  for  her,  but  he 
brought  water  and  coarse  linen  towels,  so  that, 
refreshed  and  clean-faced,  we  came  in  to  his  pres- 
ence. 

"Eloise,"  his  voice  was  deep  and  sweet,  "so 
long  as  you  were  a  child  I  tried  to  protect  and 
direct  you.  Now  that  you  are  a  woman,  you  must 
still  be  protected,  but  you  must  live  your  own  life 
and  choose  for  yourself.  You  must  meet  sorrow 
and  not  be  crushed  by  it.  You  must  take  up  your 
cross  and  bear  it.  It  is  for  this  that  I  have  called 
you  back  to  New  Mexico  at  this  time.  But  re- 
member, my  daughter,  that  life  is  not  given  to  us 
for  defeat,  but  for  victory;  not  for  tears,  but  for 

278 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

smiles;  not  for  idle  cringing  safety,  but  for  brave 
and  joyous  struggle." 

I  thought  of  Dick  Verra,  the  college  man,  whose 
own  young  years  were  full  of  hope  and  ambition, 
whose  love  for  a  woman  had  brought  him  to  the 
priesthood,  but  as  I  caught  the  rich  tones  of  Father 
Josef's  voice,  somehow,  to  me,  he  stood  for  success, 
not  failure. 

Eloise  bowed  her  head  and  listened. 

"You  must  no  longer  be  threatened  with  the 
loss  of  your  own  heritage,  nor  coerced  into  a  mar- 
riage for  which  the  Church  has  been  offered  a  bribe 
to  help  to  accomplish.  Blood  money  purifies  no 
altars  nor  extends  the  limits  of  the  Kingdom  of  the 
Christ.  Your  property  is  your  own  to  use  for  the 
holy  purposes  of  a  goodly  life  wherever  your  days 
may  lead  you;  and  whatever  the  civil  law  may 
grant  of  power  to  control  it  for  you,  }'ou  shall  no 
longer  be  harassed  or  annoyed.  The  Church  de- 
mands that  it  shall  henceforth  be  yours." 

Father  Josef's  dark  eyes  were  full  of  fire  as  he 
turned  to  Ferdinand  Ramero. 

"You  will  now  relinquish  all  claim  upon  the 
control  of  this  estate,  whose  revenue  made  your 
father  and  yourself  to  be  accounted  rich,  and 
upon  which  your  son  has  been  allowed  to  build 
up  a  life  expectation;  and  though  on  account 
of  it,  you  go  forth  a  poor  man  in  wordly  goods, 
you  may  go  out  rich  in  the  blessing  of  restoration 
and  repentance." 

Ferdinand  Ramero 's  steel  eyes  were  fixed  like 
the  eyes  of  a  snake  on  the  holy  man's  face.  Res- 
19  279 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

toration  and  repentance  do  not  belong  behind  eyes 
like  that. 

"I  can  fight  you  in  the  courts.  You  and  your 
Church  may  go  to  the  devil;"  he  seemed  to  hiss 
rather  than  to  speak  these  words. 

"We  do  go  to  him  every  day  to  bring  back  souls 
like  yours,"  Father  Josef's  voice  was  calm.  "I 
have  waited  a  long  time  for  you  to  repent.  You 
can  go  to  the  courts,  but  you  will  not  do  it.  For 
the  sake  of  your  wife,  Gloria  Ramero,  and  Felix 
Narveo,  her  brother,  we  do  not  move  against  you, 
and  you  dare  not  move  for  yourself,  because  your 
own  record  will  not  bear  the  light  of  legal  inves- 
tigation." 

Ferdinand  Ramero  sprang  up,  the  blaze  of  pas- 
sion, uncontrolled  through  all  his  years,  bursting 
forth  in  the  tragedy  of  the  hour.  Eloise  was  right. 
In  his  anger  he  was  a  maniac. 

"You  dare  to  threaten  me!  You  pen  me  in  a 
corner  to  stab  me  to  death!  You  hold  disgrace 
and  miserable  poverty  over  my  head,  and  cant  of 
restoration  and  repentance!  Not  until  here  you 
name  each  thing  that  you  count  against  me,  and  I 
have  met  them  point  by  point,  will  I  restore.  I 
never  will  repent ! ' ' 

In  the  vehemence  of  anger,  Ramero  was  the 
embodiment  of  the  dramatic  force  of  unrestraint, 
and  withal  he  was  handsome,  with  a  controlling 
magnetism  even  in  his  hour  of  downfall. 

Jondo  had  said  that  Father  Josef  had  somewhere 
back  a  strain  of  Indian  blood  in  his  veins.  It 
must  have  been  this  that  gave  the  fiber  of  self- 

280 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

control  to  his  countenance  as  he  looked  with  pity- 
ing eyes  at  Jondo  and  Eloise  St.  Vrain. 

' '  The  hour  is  struck, ' '  he  said,  sadly.  ' '  And  you 
shall  hear  your  record,  point  by  point,  because  you 
ask  it  now.  First :  you  have  retained,  controlled, 
misused,  and  at  last  embezzled  the  fortune  of 
Theron  St.  Vrain,  as  it  was  retained,  controlled, 
misused,  and  embezzled  by  your  father,  Henry 
Ramer,  in  his  lifetime.  Any  case  in  civil  courts 
must  show  how  the  heritage  of  Eloise  St.  Vrain, 
heir  to  Theron  St.  Vrain  at  the  death  of  her 
mother — ' 

"Not  until  the  death  of  her  mother — "  Ferdi- 
nand Ramero  broke  in,  hoarsely. 

For  the  first  time  to-day  the  priest's  cheek  paled, 
but  his  voice  was  unbroken  as  he  continued : 

"I  would  have  been  kinder  for  your  own  sake. 
You  desire  otherwise.  Yes,  only  after  the  death 
of  Mary  Marchland  St.  Vrain  could  you  dictate 
concerning  her  daughter's  affairs,  with  most  ques- 
tionable legality  even  then.  Mary  Marchland 
St.  Vrain  is  not  dead." 

The  chapel  was  as  silent  as  the  grave.  My 
heart  stood  still.  Before  me  was  Jondo,  big, 
strong,  self-controlled,  inured  to  the  tragic  deeds 
of  the  epic  years  of  the  West.  No  pen  of  mine  will 
ever  make  the  picture  of  Jondo' s  face  at  these 
words  of  Father  Josef. 

Eloise  turned  deathly  pale,  and  her  dark  eyes 
opened  wide,  seeing  nothing.  It  was  not  I  who 
comforted  her,  but  Jondo,  who  put  his  strong  arm 
about  her,  and  she  leaned  against  his  shoulder. 

281 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Father  and  daughter  in  spirit,  stricken  to  the 
heart. 

"For  many  years  she  has  lived  in  that  lonely 
ranch-house  on  the  Narveo  grant  in  the  little  ca- 
non up  the  San  Christobal  Arroyo.  When  the 
fever  left  her  with  memory  darkened  forever,  you 
recorded  her  as  dead.  But  your  wife,  Gloria 
Ramero,  spared  no  pains  to  make  her  comfortable. 
She  has  never  known  a  want,  nor  lived  through  one 
unhappy  hour,  because  she  has  forgotten." 

"A  priest, "confessor  for  men's  inmost  souls,  who 
babbles  all  he  knows!  I  wonder  that  this  roof 
does  not  fall  on  you  and  strike  you  dead  before 
this  altar."  Ferdinand  Ramero 's  voice  rose  to 
a  shout. 

"It  was  too  strongly  built  by  one  who  knew 
men's  inmost  souls,  and  what  they  needed  most," 
Father  Josef  replied.  "You  drove  me  to  this  by 
your  insistence.  I  would  have  shielded  you — and 
these." 

He  turned  to  Eloise  and  Jondo  as  he  spoke. 

"One  more  point,  since  you  hold  it  ready  to 
spring  when  I  am  through.  You  stand  accused  of 
plotting  for  your  father's  murder.  The  evidence 
still  holds,  and  some  men  who  rode  with  you  to- 
day to  seize  this  gentle  girl  and  drag  her  back  to  a 
marriage  with  your  son — and  save  your  ill-gotten 
gold  thereby — some  of  these  men  who  will  confess 
to  me  and  do  penance  to-morrow  night,  are  the 
same  men  who  long  ago  confessed  to  other  crimes — 
you  can  guess  what  they  were. 

1 '  It  pays  well  to  repent  before  such  a  holy  tattler 
282 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

as  yourself."     Ramero's  blue  eyes  burned  deep  as 
their  fire  was  centered  on  the  priest. 

"These  are  the  counts  against  you,"  Father 
Josef  said  in  review,  ignoring  the  last  outburst  of 
wrath.  "A  life  of  ease  and  inheritance  through 
money  not  your  own,  nor  even  rightly  yours  to 
control.  A  stricken  woman  listed  with  the  dead, 
whose  memory  might  have  come  again — God 
knows — if  but  the  loving  touch  of  childish  hands 
had  long  ago  been  on  her  hands.  It  is  years  too 
late  for  all  that  now.  A  brave  young  ward  res- 
cued from  your  direct  control  by  Esmond  Claren- 
den's  force  of  will  and  daring  to  do  the  right. 
You  know  that  last  pleading  cry  of  Mary  March- 
land's,  for  Jondo  to  protect  her  child,  and  how 
Clarenden,  for  love  of  this  brave  man,  came  to 
New  Mexico  on  perilous  trails  to  take  the  little 
Eloise  from  you.  And  lastly  in  this  matter,  the 
threats  to  force  a  marriage  unholy  in  God's  sight, 
because  no  love  could  go  with  it.  Your  mad  chase 
and  villainous  intention  to  use  brute  force  to  secure 
your  will  out  yonder  on  the  rocks  above  the  cliff. 
You  have  debauched  an  Apache  boy,  making  him 
your  tool  and  spy.  You  sanctioned  the  seizing  of  a 
Hopi  girl  whose  parents  you  permitted  to  be  mur- 
dered, and  their  child  sold  into  slavery  among 
foreign  tribes.  You  have  stirred  up  and  kept 
alive  a  feud  of  hatred  and  revenge  among  the 
Kiowa  people  against  the  life  and  property  of 
Esmond  Clarenden  and  all  who  belong  to  him. 
And,  added  to  all  these,  you  stand  to-day  a  patri- 
cide in  spirit,  accused  of  plotting  for  the  murder 

283 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

of  your  own  father.  Do  not  these  things  call  for 
restoration  and  repentance?" 

Ferdinand  Ramero  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  in 
the  aisle  near  the  door.  His  face  hardened,  and  all 
the  suave  polish  and  cool  concentration  and  domi- 
nant magnetism  fell  away.  What  remained  was 
the  man  as  shaped  by  the  ruling  passions  of  years, 
from  whose  control  only  divine  power  could  bring 
deliverance.  And  when  he  spoke  there  was  a 
remorseless  cruelty  and  selfishness  in  his  low,  even 
tones. 

"You  have  called  me  a  plotter  for  my  father's 
life — based  on  some  lying  Mexican's  love  of 
blackmail.  You  do  not  even  try  to  prove  your 
charge.  The  man  who  would  have  killed  him 
was  Theron  St.  Vrain,  and  his  brother,  Bertrand. 
That  Theron  was  disgraced  by  the  fact  you  know 
very  well,  and  the  blackness  of  it  drove  him  to  an 
early  grave.  So  this  young  lady  here,  whom  I 
would  have  shielded  from  this  stain  upon  her  name 
in  the  marriage  to  my  son,  may  know  the  truth 
about  her  father.  He  was  what  you,  Father  Josef, 
try  to  prove  me  to  be." 

He  paused  as  if  to  gather  venom  for  his  last 
shaft. 

"These  two,  Theron  and  Bertrand,  were  equally 
guilty,  but  through  tricks  of  their  own,  Theron 
escaped  and  Bertrand  took  the  whole  crime  on 
himself.  He  disappeared  and  paid  the  penalty  by 
his  death.  His  body  was  recovered  from  the  river 
and  placed  in  an  unmarked  grave.  Why  go  back 
to  that  now?  Because  Bertrand  St.  Vrain's 

284 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

clothes  alone  on  some  poor  drowned  unknown  man 
were  buried.  Bertrand  himself  sits  here  beside  his 
niece,  Eloise  St.  Vrain.  John  Doe  to  the  world, 
the  man  who  lives  without  a  name,  and  dares  not 
sign  a  business  document,  a  walking  dead  man.  I 
could  even  pity  him  if  he  were  real.  But  who 
can  pity  nothing?" 

A  look  of  defiance  came  into  the  man's  glittering 
eyes  as  he  took  one  step  nearer  to  the  door  and  , 
continued : 

"Esmond  Clarenden  drove  me  out  of  the  United 
States  with  threats  of  implicating  me  in  the  death 
of  my  father,  and  I  knew  his  power  and  brutal 
daring  to  do  anything  he  chose  to  do.  It  was  but 
his  wish  to  have  revenge  for  this  nameless  thing — " 

The  scorn  of  Ramero's  eyes  and  voice  as  he 
looked  at  Jondo  were  withering. 

"And  this  thing  keeps  me  here  by  threats  of 
attacks,  even  when  he  knows  that  by  such  attacks 
he  will  reveal  himself.  It  has  been  a  grim  game." 
Something  of  a  grin  showed  all  of  the  man's  fine 
teeth.  "A  grim  game,  and  never  played  to  a 
finish  till  now.  I  leave  it  to  you,  Father  Josef,  to 
judge  who  has  been  the  stronger  and  who  comes 
out  of  it  victor.  I  make  restoration — of  what? 
I  leave  the  St.  Vrain  money  that  I  have  guarded 
for  Eloise,  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  killed,  or 
helped  to  kill,  my  father.  You  can  control  it  now, 
among  you:  Clarenden,  already  rich;  your 
Church,  notorious  in  its  robbery  of  the  poor  by 
enriching  its  coffers;  or  this  uncle  here,  who  is 
dead  and  buried  in  an  unknown  grave.  That  is 

285 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

all  the  restoration  I  can  make.  Repentance,  I  do 
not  know  what  that  word  means.  Keep  it  for  the 
poor  devils  you  will  gather  in  to-morrow  night  to 
be  shriven.  They  need  it.  I  do  not." 

He  turned  and  strode  out  of  the  church  and, 
mounting  his  horse,  rode  like  a  madman  up  the 
yellow  valley  of  the  San  Christobal.  In  after 
years  I  could  find  no  term  to  so  well  describe  that 
last  act  as  the  words  of  Beverly  Clarenden,  who 
came  to  the  chapel  just  in  time  to  hear  Ferdinand 
Ramero's  closing  declaration,  and  to  see  his  black 
scowl  and  scornful  air,  as,  in  a  royal  madness,  he 
defied  the  power  of  man  and  denounced  the  all- 
pitying  love  that  is  big  enough  for  the  most  sinful. 

"It  was  Paradise  lost,"  Beverly  declared,  "and 
Satan  falling  clear  to  hell  before  the  Archangel's 
flaming  sword.  Only  he  went  east  and  the  real 
Satan  dropped  down  to  his  place.  But  they  will 
meet  up  somewhere,  Ramero  and  the  real  one, 
and  not  be  able  to  tell  each  other  apart." 

And  Jondo.  My  boyhood  idol,  brave,  gentle, 
unselfish,  able  everywhere !  Jondo,  who  had  kept 
my  toddling  feet  from  stumbling,  who  had  taught 
me  to  ride  and  swim  and  shoot,  who  had  made  me 
wise  in  plains  lore,  and  manly  and  clean  among 
•the  rough  and  vulgar  things  of  the  Missouri 
frontier.  Jondo,  whose  big,  cool  hand  had  touched 
my  feverish  face,  whose  deep  blue  eyes  had  looked 
love  into  my  eyes  when  I  lay  dying  on  Pawnee 
Rock!  A  man  without  a  name!  A  murderer 
who  had  by  a  trick  escaped  the  law,  and  must  walk 
evermore  unknown  among  his  fellow-men !  Some- 

286 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

thing  went  out  of  my  life  as  I  looked  at  him.  The 
boy  in  me  was  burned  and  seared  away,  and  only 
the  man-to-be,  was  left. 

He  offered  no  word  of  defense  from  the  accusa- 
tion against  him,  nor  made  a  plea  of  innocence,  but 
sat  looking  straight  at  Father  Josef,  who  looked 
at  him  as  if  expecting  nothing.  And  as  they 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes,  a  something  strong 
and  beautiful  swept  the  face  of  each.  I  could  not 
understand  it,  and  I  was  young.  My  lifetime 
hero  had  turned  to  nothingness  before  my  eyes. 
The  world  was  full  of  evil.  I  hated  it  and  all 
that  in  it  was,  my  trusting,  foolish,  short-sighted 
self  most  of  all. 

But  Eloise — the  heart  of  woman  is  past  under- 
standing— Eloise  turned  to  the  man  beside  her  and, 
putting  both  arms  around  his  neck,  she  pressed 
one  fair  cheek  against  his  brown  bearded  one,  and 
kissed  him  gently  on  the  forehead.  Then  turning 
to  Father  Josef,  no  longer  the  dependent,  clinging 
maiden,  but  the  loving  woman,  strong  and  sure  of 
will,  she  said : 

"I  must  go  to  my  mother.  So  long  as  she  lives 
I  will  never  leave  her  again." 

She  did  not  even  look  at  me,  nor  speak  a  word  of 
farewell,  as  if  I  were  the  murderer  instead  of  that 
man,  Jondo,  whom  she  had  kissed. 

I  saw  her  ride  away,  with  Little  Blue  Flower 
beside  her.  I  saw  the  green  mesa,  the  red  cliffs 
above  the  growing  things,  the  glitter  of  the  San 
Christobal  water  on  yellow  sands,  the  level  plain 
where  the  narrow  white  trail  crept  far  away  toward 

287 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

Gloria  Narveo's  lonely  ranch-house,  strong  as  a 
fort  built  a  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  little  canon  of 
the  valley.  I  saw  a  young,  graceful  figure  on 
horse-back,  and  the  glint  of  sunlight  on  golden 
hair.  But  the  rider  did  not  turn  her  head  and  I 
could  not  get  one  glance  of  those  beautiful  dark 
eyes.  A  great  mass  of  rock  hid  the  line  of  the  trail, 
and  the  two,  Eloise  and  Little  Blue  Flower, 
rounded  the  angle  and  rode  on  out  of  my  sight. 

I  helped  to  dig  open  the  curly  mesquite  and  to 
shovel  out  the  sand.  I  heard  the  burial  service, 
and  saw  a  rudely  coffined  form  lowered  into  an 
open  grave.  I  saw  Rex  Krane  at  the  head,  and 
Jondo  at  the  foot,  and  Beverly's  bleeding  hands 
as  he  scraped  the  loose  earth  back  and  heaped  it 
over  that  which  had  been  called  Sister  Anita;  I 
heard  Father  Josef's  voice  of  music  repeating  the 
"Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust."  And  then 
we  turned  away  and  left  the  spot,  as  men  turn 
every  day  to  the  common  affairs  of  life. 

Four  days  later  Little  Blue  Flower  came  to  me  as 
I,  still  numb  and  cold  and  blankly  unthinking,  sat 
beside  Fort  Marcy  and  looked  out  with  unseeing 
eyes  at  the  glory  of  a  New-Mexican  sunset. 

"I  come  from  Eloise."  The  sadness  of  her  face 
and  voice  even  the  Indian's  self-control  could  not 
conceal. 

"She  is  sad,  but  brave,  and  her  mother  loves  her 
and  calls  her  'Little  One.'  She  will  never  grow  up 
to  her  mother.  But" — Little  Blue  Flower's  voice 
faltered  and  she  gazed  out  at  the  far  Sandia  peaks 
wrapped  in  the  rich  purple  folds  of  twilight,  with 

288 


FINISHING   TOUCHES 

the  scarlet  of  the  afterglow  beyond  them — "Eloise 
loves  Beverly.  She  will  always  love  him.  Heav- 
en meant  him  for  her."  There  were  some  other 
broken  sentences,  but  I  did  not  grasp  them  clearly 
then. 

The  world  was  full  of  gray  shadows.  The  finish- 
ing touches  had  been  put  on  life  for  me.  I  looked 
out  at  the  dying  glow  in  the  west,  and  wondered 
vaguely  if  the  sun  would  ever  cross  the  Gloriettas 
again,  or  ever  the  Sangre-de-Christo  grow  radiant 
with  the  scarlet  stain  of  that  ineffable  beauty  that 
uplifts  and  purifies  the  soul  of  him  who  looks  on  it. 


XVII 

SWEET  AND   BITTER  WATERS 

Trust  me,  it  is  something  to  be  cast 

Face  to  face  with  one's  self  at  last, 

To  be  taken  out  of  the  fuss  and  strife, 

The  endless  clatter  of  plate  and  knife, 

The  bore  of  books,  and  the  bores  of  the  street, 

And  to  be  set  down  on  one's  own  two    eet 

So  nigh  to  the  great  warm  heart  of  God, 
You  almost  seem  to  feel  it  beat 

Down  from  the  sunshine,  and  up  from  the  sod. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

MY  hair  is  very  white  now,  and  my  fingers  hold 
a  pen  more  easily  than  they  could  hold  the 
ox-goad  or  the  rifle,  and  mine  to-day  is  all  the  back- 
ward look.  Which  look  is  evermore  a  satisfying 
thing  because  it  takes  in  all  of  life  behind  in  its  true 
proportion,  where  the  forward  look  of  youth  sees 
only  what  comes  next  and  nothing  more.  And 
looking  back  to-day  it  seems  that,  of  the  many 
times  I  walked  the  long  miles  of  that  old  Santa  Fe 
Trail,  no  journey  over  it  stands  out  quite  so  clear- 
cut  in  my  memory  as  the  home  trip  after  I  had 
watched  the  going  away  of  Eloise,  and  witnessed 
the  flight  of  Ferdinand  Ramero,  and  listened  to  the 
story  of  Jondo's  life. 

When  Little  Blue  Flower  left  me  sitting  beside 
290 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

Fort  Marcy's  wall  my  mind  went  back  in  swift 
review  over  the  flight  of  days  since  Beverly  Claren- 
den  and  I  had  come  from  Cincinnati.  I  recalled 
the  first  meeting  of  Eloise  with  my  cousin.  How 
easily  they  had  renewed  acquaintance.  I  had 
been  surprised  and  embarrassed  and  awkward 
when  I  found  her  and  Little  Blue  Flower  down  by 
the  Flat  Rock  below  St.  Ann's,  in  the  Moon  of  the 
Peach  Blossom.  I  remembered  how  I  had  monop- 
olized all  of  her  time  in  the  days  that  followed, 
leaving  good-natured  Bev  to  look  after  the  little 
Indian  girl  who  never  really  seemed  like  an  Indian 
to  him.  And  keen-piercing  as  an  arrow  came  now 
the  memory  of  that  midnight  hour  when  I  had 
seen  the  two  in  the  little  side  porch  of  the  Clar- 
enden  home,  and  again  I  heard  the  sorrowful 
words : 

"Oh,  Beverly,  it  breaks  my  heart." 

Eloise  had  just  seen  Beverly  kiss  Little  Blue 
Flower  in  the  shadows  of  the  porch.  And  all  the 
while,  good-hearted,  generous  boy  that  he  was,  he 
had  never  tried  to  push  his  suit  with  her,  had  made 
her  love  him  more,  no  doubt,  by  letting  me  have 
full  command  of  all  of  her  time,  while  he  forgot 
himself  in  showing  courtesy  to  the  Indian  girl,  be- 
cause Bev  was  first  of  all  a  gentleman.  I  thought 
of  that  dear  hour  in  the  church  of  San  Miguel. 
Of  course,  Eloise  was  glad  to  find  me  there — poor, 
hunted,  frightened  child!  She  would  have  been 
as  glad,  no  doubt,  to  have  found  big  Bill  Ban- 
ney  or  Rex  Krane,  and  I  had  thought  her  eyes 
held  something  just  for  me  that  night.  She  had 

291 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

not  seen  Beverly  at  the  chapel  beside  the  San 
Christobal  River,  and  to  me  she  had  not  given 
even  a  parting  glance  when  she  went  away.  If 
she  had  cared  for  me  at  all  she  would  not  have  left 
me  so.  And  I  had  climbed  the  tortuous  trail  with 
her  and  stood  beside  her  in  the  zone  of  sanctuary 
safety  that  Father  Josef  had  thrown  about  us  two. 

These  things  were  clear  enough  to  me,  but  when 
I  tried  to  think  again  of  all  that  Little  Blue  Flower 
had  said  an  hour  ago  my  mind  went  numb : 

"Her  mother  knew  her,  but  only  as  the  little 
Eloise  long  lost  and  never  missed  'till  now.  The 
mother,  too,  was  very  beautiful,  and  young  in  face, 
and  child-like  in  her  helplessness.  The  lonely 
ranch-house,  old,  and  strong  as  a  fort,  girt  round 
by  tall  canon  walls,  nestled  in  a  grassy  open 
place;  and  not  a  comfort  had  been  denied  the 
woman  there.  For  Gloria  Ramero,  Ferdinand's 
wife,  had  governed  that.  And  Eloise  had  entered 
there  to  stay.  This  much  was  clear  enough. 
But  that  which  followed  seemed  to  twist  and 
writhe  about  in  my  mind  with  only  one  thing 
sure — Eloise  loved  Beverly,  would  always  love 
him.  And  he  could  not  love  any  one  else.  He 
could  be  kind  to  any  girl,  but  he  would  not  be 
happy.  Some  day  when  he  was  older — a  real  man — 
then  he  would  long  for  the  girl  of  his  heart  and  his 
own  choice,  and  he  would  find  her  and  love  her, 
too,  and  she  would  love  him  and  those  who  stood 
between  them  they  both  would  hate.  And  Eloise 
loved  Beverly.  She  could  not  send  Gail  any 
words  herself,  but  he  would  understand." 

292 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

So  came  the  Indian  girl's  interpretation  of  the 
case,  but  the  conclusion  was  the  message  meant  for 
me.  I  wondered  vaguely,  as  I  sat  there,  if  the 
vision  had  come  to  Beverly  years  ago  as  it  had 
come  to  me :  three  inen — the  soldier  on  his  cavalry- 
mount,  Jondo,  the  plainsman,  on  his  big  black 
horse,  and  between  the  two,  Esmond  Clarenden, 
neither  mounted  nor  on  foot,  but  going  forward 
somehow,  steady  and  sure.  And  beyond  these 
three,  this  side  of  misty  mountain  peaks,  the  cloud 
of  golden  hair,  the  sweet  face,  with  dark  eyes  look- 
ing into  mine.  I  had  not  been  a  dreamer,  I  had 
been  a  fool. 

Through  Beverly  I  learned  the  next  day  that 
Ferdinand  Ramero  had  come  into  Santa  Fe  late 
at  night  and  had  left  early  the  next  morning. 
Marcos  Ramero,  faultlessly  dressed,  lounged  about 
the  gambling-halls,  and  strolled  through  the  sunny 
Plaza,  idly  and  insolently,  as  was  his  custom. 
But  Gloria  Ramero,  to  whom  Marcos  long  ago 
ceased  to  be  more  than  coldly  courteous,  had  left 
the  city  at  once  for  the  San  Christobal  Valley,  to 
devote  herself  to  the  care  of  the  beautiful  woman 
whom  her  brother  Felix  Narveo  in  his  college  days 
had  admired  so  much. 

As  for  Jondo,  years  ago  when  we  had  met  Father 
Josef  out  by  the  sandy  arroyo,  he  had  left  us  to 
follow  the  good  man  somewhere,  and  had  not  come 
back  to  the  Exchange  Hotel  until  nightfall. 
Something  had  come  into  his  face  that  day  that 
never  left  it  again.  And  now  that  something  had 
deepened  in  the  glance  of  his  eye  and  the  firm-set 

293 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

mouth.  It  was  through  that  meeting  with  Father 
Josef  that  he  had  first  heard  of  the  supposed  death 
of  Mary  Marchland  St.  Vrain,  and  it  was  through 
the  priest  in  the  chapel  he  had  heard  that  she  was 
still  alive. 

Neither  Beverly  nor  Bill  Banney  nor  F.ex 
Krane  knew  what  I  had  heard  in  the  church  con- 
cerning Jondo's  early  career,  and  I  never  spoke  of 
it  to  them.  But  to  all  of  us,  outside  of  that  inten- 
sified something  indefinable  in  his  face,  he  was  un- 
changed. He  met  my  eye  with  the  open,  frank 
glance  with  which  he  met  the  gaze  of  all  men.  His 
smile  was  no  less  engaging  and  his  manner  re- 
mained the  same — fearless,  unsuspicious,  definite 
in  serious  affairs,  good-natured  and  companionable 
in  everything.  I  could  not  read  him  now,  by  one 
little  line,  but  back  of  everything  lay  that  wither- 
ing, grievous  thought — he  was  a  murderer.  Heav- 
en pity  the  boy  when  his  idol  falls,  and  if  he  be  a 
dreaming  idealist  the  hurt  is  tenfold  deeper. 

And  yet — the  trail  was  waiting  there  to  teach 
me  many  things,  and  Jondo's  words  rang  through 
the  aisles  of  my  brain : 

"If  you  ever  have  a  real  cross,  Gail,  thank  the 
Lord  for  the  open  plains  and  the  green  prairies,  and 
the  danger  stimulus  of  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail. 
They  will  seal  up  your  wounds,  and  soften  your 
hard,  rebellious  heart,  and  make  you  see  things 
big,  and  despise  the  little  crooks  in  your  path." 

Our  Conestoga  wagons,  with  their  mule-teams, 
and  the  few  ponies  for  scout  service,  followed  the 

294 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

old  trail  out  of  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande  to  the 
tablelands  eastward,  up  the  steep  sidling  way  into 
the  passes  of  the  Glorietta  Mountains,  down 
through  lone,  wind-swept  canons,  and  on  be- 
tween wild,  scarred  hills,  coming,  at  last,  beyond 
the  picturesque  ridges,  snow-crowned  and  mesa- 
guarded,  into  the  long,  gray,  waterless  lands  of  the 
Cimmarron  country.  Here  we  journeyed  along 
monotonous  levels  that  rose  and  fell  unnoted 
because  of  lack  of  landmarks  to  measure  by,  only 
the  broad,  beaten  Santa  Fe  Trail  stretched  on  un- 
bending, unchanging,  uneffaceable. 

As  the  distance  from  spring  to  spring  decreased, 
every  drop  of  water  grew  precious,  and  we  pushed 
on,  eager  to  reach  the  richer  prairies  of  the  Arkan- 
sas Valley.  Suddenly  in  the  monotony  of  the  way, 
and  the  increasing  calls  of  thirst,  there  came  a 
sense  of  danger,  the  plains-old  danger  of  the  Co- 
manche  on  the  Cimarron  Trail.  Bill  Banney 
caught  it  first — just  a  faint  sign  of  one  hostile 
track.  All  the  next  day  Jondo  scouted  far,  coming 
into  camp  at  nightfall  with  a  grave  report. 

"The  water-supply  is  failing,"  he  told  us,  "and 
there  is  something  wrong  out  there.  The  Coman- 
ches  are  hovering  near,  that's  certain,  and  there  is 
a  single  trail  that  doesn't  look  Comanche  to  me 
that  I  can't  account  for.  All  we  can  do  is  to 
'hold  fast, ' "  he  added,  with  his  cheery  smile  that 
never  failed  him. 

That  night  I  could  not  sleep,  and  the  stars  and  I 
stared  long  at  each  other.  They  were  so  golden 
and  so  far  away.  And  one,  as  I  looked,  slipped 
20  295 


from  its  place  and  trailed  wide  across  the  sky  until 
it  vanished,  leaving  a  stream  of  golden  light  that 
lingered  before  my  eyes.  I  thought  of  the  trail 
in  the  San  Christobal  Valley,  and  again  I  saw  the 
sunlight  on  golden  hair  as  Eloise  with  Little  Blue 
Flower  passed  out  of  sight  around  the  shoulder  of  a 
great  rock  beside  the  way.  At  last  came  sleep, 
and  in  my  dreams  Eloise  was  beside  me  as  she  had 
been  in  the  church  of  San  Miguel,  her  dark  eyes 
looking  up  into  mine.  I  knew,  in  my  dream,  that 
I  was  dreaming  and  I  did  not  want  to  waken. 
For,  "Eloise  loved  Beverly,  would  always  love 
him."  Little  Blue  Flower  had  said  it.  The  face 
was  far  away,  this  side  of  misty  mountain  peaks, 
and  farther  still.  I  could  see  only  the  eyes  looking 
at  me.  I  wakened  to  see  only  the  stars  looking  at 
me.  I  slept  again  deeply  and  dreamlessly,  and 
wakened  suddenly.  We  were  far  and  away  from 
the  Apache  country,  but  there,  for  just  one  instant, 
a  face  came  close  to  mine — the  face  of  Santan — 
the  Apache.  It  vanished  instantly  as  it  had  come. 
The  night  guard  passed  by  me  and  crossed  the 
camp.  The  stars  held  firm  above  me.  I  had  had 
another  dream.  But  after  that  I  did  not  sleep  till 
dawn. 

The  day  was  very  hot,  with  the  scorching  breeze 
of  the  plains  that  sears  the  very  eyeballs  dry. 
Through  the  dust  and  glare  we  pressed  on  over 
long,  white,  monotonous  miles.  Hovering  near  us 
somewhere  were  the  Comanches — waiting;  with 
us  was  burning  thirst ;  ahead  of  us  ran  the  taunt- 
ing mirage — cool,  sparkling  water  rippling  between 

296 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

green  banks — receding  as  we  approached,  mad- 
dening us  by  the  suggestion  of  its  refreshing  pic- 
ture, the  while  we  knew  it  was  only  a  picture. 
For  it  is  Satan's  own  painting  on  the  desert  to  let 
men  know  that  Dante's  dream  is  mild  compared  to 
the  real  art  of  torment.  Men  and  animals  began 
to  give  way  under  the  day's  burden,  and  we  moved 
slowly.  In  times  like  these  Jondo  stayed  with  the 
train,  sending  Bill  Banney  and  Beverly  scouting 
ahead.  That  was  the  longest  day  that  I  ever 
lived  on  the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  although  I  followed  its 
miles  many  times  in  the  best  of  its  freighting  years. 

The  weary  hours  dragged  at  last  toward  evening, 
and  a  dozen  signs  in  plains  lore  told  us  that  water 
must  be  near.  As  we  topped  a  low  swell  at  the 
bottom  of  whose  long  slide  lay  the  little  oasis  we 
were  seeking,  we  came  upon  Bill  Banney 's  pony 
lying  dead  across  the  trail.  And  near  it  Bill 
himself,  with  bloated  face  and  bleared  eyes,  mut- 
tering half -coherently : 

"Water-hole!     Poison!     Don't  drink!" 

And  then  he  babbled  of  the  muddy  Missouri, 
and  the  Kentucky  blue  grass,  and  cold  mountain 
springs  in  the  passes  of  the  Gloriettas,  warning  us 
thickly  of  "death  down  there." 

"Down  there,"  beside  the  little  spring  shelved 
in  by  shale  at  the  lower  edge  of  the  swell,  we  found 
a  tiny  cairn  built  of  clumps  of  sod  and  bits  of  shale. 
Fastened  on  it  was  a  scrap  from  Bill's  note-book 
with  the  words 

Spring  poisoned.  Bev  gone  for  water  not  very  far  on. — 
BILL. 

297 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

So  Bill  had  drunk  the  poisoned  water  and  had 
tried  to  reach  us.  But  for  fear  he  might  not  do  it, 
he  had  scrawled  this  warning  and  left  it  here. 
Brave  Bill!  How  madly  he  had  staggered  round 
the  place  and  threshed  the  ground  in  agony  when 
he  tried  to  mount  his  poisoned  pony,  and  his  first 
thought  was  for  us.  The  plains  made  men  see  big. 
Jondo  had  told  me  they  could  do  it.  Poor  Bill, 
moaning  for  water  now  and  tossing  in  agony  in 
Jondo' s  wagon!  The  Comanches  had  been  cun- 
ning in  their  malice.  How  we  hated  them  as  we 
stood  looking  at  the  waters  of  that  poisoned  spring ! 

Rex  Krane's  big,  gentle  hands  were  holding 
Bill's.  Rex  always  had  a  mother's  heart;  while 
Jondo  read  the  ground  with  searching  glance. 

"We  will  wait  here  a  little  while.  Bev  will  re- 
port soon,  I  hope.  Come,  Gail,"  he  said  to  me. 
"Here  is  something  we  will  follow  now." 

A  single  trail  led  far  away  from  the  beaten  road 
toward  a  stretch  of  coarse  dry  yucca  and  loco- 
weeds  that  hid  a  little  steep-sided  draw  across  the 
plains.  At  the  bottom  of  it  a  man  lay  face  down- 
ward beside  a  dead  pony.  We  scrambled  down, 
shattering  the  dry  earth  after  us  as  we  went. 
Jondo  gently  lifted  the  body  and  turned  it  face  up- 
ward. It  was  Ferdinand  Ramero. 

The  big  plainsman  did  not  cry  out,  nor  drop  his 
hold,  but  his  face  turned  gray,  and  only  the  dying 
man  saw  the  look  in  the  blue  eyes  gazing  into  his. 
Ramero  tried  to  draw  away,  fear,  and  hate,  and 
the  old  dominant  will  that  ruled  his  life,  strong  still 
in  death.  As  he  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  man  whose 

298 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

life  hopes  he  had  blasted,  he  expected  no  mercy  and 
asked  for  none. 

"You  have  me  at  last.  I  didn't  put  the  poison 
in  that  spring.  I  would  not  have  drunk  it  if  I  had. 
It  was  the  one  below  I  fixed  for  you.  And  I'm  in 
your  power  now.  Be  quick  about  it." 

For  one  long  minute  Jondo  looked  down  at  his 
enemy.  Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  mine  with  the 
victory  of  "him  that  overcometh"  shining  in 
their  blue  depths. 

"If  I  could  make  you  live,  I'd  do  it,  Fred.  If 
you  have  any  word  to  say,  be  quick  about  it  now. 
Your  time  is  short." 

The  sweetness  of  that  gentle  voice  I  hear  some- 
times to-day  in  the  low  notes  of  song-birds,  and 
the  gentle  swish  of  refreshing  summer  showers. 

Ferdinand  Ramero  lifted  his  cold  blue  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  man  bending  over  him. 

"Leave  me  here — forgotten — " 

"Not  of  God.  His  Mercy  endureth  forever," 
Jondo  replied. 

But  there  was  no  repentance,  no  softening  of  the 
hard,  imperious  heart. 

We  left  him  there,  pulling  down  the  loose  earth 

i  from  the  steep  sides  of  the  draw  to  cover  him 

1  from   all   the  frowning   elements   of  the  plains. 

And  when  we  went  back  to  the  waiting  train 

Jondo  reported,  grimly: 

"No  enemy  in  sight." 

We  laid  Bill  Banney  beside  the  poisoned  spring, 
from  whose  bitter  waters  he  had  saved  our  lives. 
So  martyrs  filled  the  unknown  graves  that  made 

299 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

the  milestones  of  the  way  in  the  days  of  commerce- 
building  on  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

The  next  spring  was  not  far  ahead,  as  Bill's  note 
had  said,  but  the  stars  were  thick  above  us  and 
the  desolate  land  was  full  of  shadows  before  we 
reached  it — a  thirst-mad,  heart-sore  crowd  trailing 
slowly  on  through  the  gloom  of  the  night. 

Beverly  was  waiting  for  us  and  the  refreshing 
moisture  of  the  air  above  a  spring  seemed  about 
him. 

"I  thought  you'd  never  come.  Where's  Bill? 
There's  water  here.  I  made  the  spring  myself," 
he  shouted,  as  we  came  near. 

The  spring  that  he  had  digged  for  us  was  in  the 
sandy  bed  of  a  dry  stream,  with  low,  earth-banks 
on  either  side.  It  was  full  of  water,  hardly  clear, 
but  plentiful,  and  slowly  washing  out  a  bigger  pool 
for  itself  as  it  seeped  forth. 

"There  is  poison  in  the  real  spring  down  there." 
Beverly  pointed  toward  the  diminished  fountain 
we  had  expected  to  find.  "I've  worked  since 
noon  at  this." 

We  drank,  and  life  came  back  to  us.  We 
pitched  camp,  and  then  listened  to  Beverly's 
story  of  the  sweet  and  bitter  waters  of  the  trail 
that  day.  And  all  the  while  it  seemed  as  if  Bill 
Banney  was  just  out  of  sight  and  might  come 
galloping  in  at  any  moment. 

"You  know  what  happened  up  the  trail,  my 
cousin  said,  sadly.  "Bill  was  ahead  of  me  and  he 
drank  first,  and  galloped  back  to  warn  me  and  beg 
me  to  come  on  for  water.  I  thought  I  could  get 

300 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

down  here  and  take  some  water  back  to  Bill  in 
time.  It's  all  shale  up  there.  No  place  to  dig 
above,  nor  below,  even  if  one  dared  to  dig  below 
that  poison.  But  I  found  a  dead  coyote  that 
had  just  left  here,  and  all  springs  began  to  look 
Comanche  to  me.  I  lariated  my  pony  and 
crept  down  under  the  bank  there  to  think  and 
rest.  Everything  went  poison-spotted  before  my 
eyes." 

"Where's  your  pony  now,  Bev?"  Jondo  asked. 

"I  don't  know  sure,  but  I  expect  he  is  about 
going  over  the  Raton  Pass  by  this  time,"  Beverly 
replied.  "Down  there  things  seemed  to  swim 
around  me  like  water  everywhere  and  I  knew  I'd 
got  to  stir.  Just  then  an  Indian  came  slipping  up 
from  somewhere  to  the  spring  to  drink.  He  didn't 
look  right  to  me  at  all,  but  I  couldn't  sit  still  and 
see  him  kill  himself.  If  he  needed  killing  I  could 
have  done  it  for  him,  for  he  never  saw  me.  Just  as 
he  stooped  I  saw  his  face.  It  was  that  Apache — 
Santan — the  wander-foot,  for  I  never  heard  of  an 
Apache  getting  so  far  from  the  mountains.  I 
ought  to  have  kept  still,  Jondo" — Beverly's  ready 
smile  came  to  his  face — "but  I'd  made  that  fellow 
swear  he'd  let  me  eternally  alone  when  we  had  our 
little  fracas  up  by  the  San  Christobal  Arroyo,  so 
something  like  conscience,  mean  as  the  stomach- 
ache, made  me  call  out : 

"Don't  drink  there;  it's  poison.' 

' '  He  stopped  and  stared  at  me  a  minute,  or  ten 
minutes — I  didn't  count  time  on  him — and  then, 
he  said,  slow-like : 

301 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

'"It's  the  spring  west  that  is  poisoned.  I  put 
it  there  for  you.  You  will  not  see  your  men  again. 
They  will  drink  and  die.  Who  put  this  poison 
here?' 

"'Lord  knows.  I  didn't,'  I  told  him.  'Two 
of  you  carrying  poison  are  two  too  many  for  the 
Cimarron  country.'" 

And  I  hadn't  any  more  conscience  after  that, 
but  I  was  faint  and  slow,  and  my  aim  was  bad  for 
eels.  He  could  have  fixed  me  right  then,  but  for 
some  reason  he  didn't." 

Beverly's  face  grew  sad. 

"He  made  six  jumps  six  ways,  and  caught  my 
pony's  lariat.  I  can  hear  his  yell  still  as  he 
tore  a  hole  in  the  horizon  and  jumped  right 
through.  Then  I  began  on  that  spring.  'Dig 
or  die.  Dig  or  die.'  I  said  over  and  over,  and 
we  are  all  here  but  Bill.  I  wish  I'd  got  that 
Apache,  though." 

Jondo  and  I  looked  at  each  other. 

"The  thing  is  clear  now,"  he  said,  aside  to  me. 
"That  single  trail  I  found  back  yonder  day  before 
yesterday  was  Santan's  running  on  ahead  of  us  to 
poison  the  water  for  us  and  then  steal  a  horse  and 
make  his  way  back  to  the  mountains.  An  Apache 
can  live  on  this  cactus-covered  sand  the  same  as  a 
rattlesnake.  He  fixed  the  upper  spring  and  came 
down  here  to  drink.  Only  Beverly's  conscience 
saved  him  here.  Heaven  knows  how  Fred  Ramer 
got  out  here.  He  may  have  come  with  some 
Mexicans  on  ahead  of  us  and  left  them  here  to 
drop  his  poison  in  this  lower  spring.  Then  he 

302 


SWEET   AND    BITTER   WATERS 

turned  back  toward  Santa  Fe  and  found  his  doom 
up  there  at  Santan's  spring. 

"I'm  like  Bev.  I  wish  he  had  gotten  the  Apache, 
now.  I  don't  know  yet  how  I  was  fooled  in  him, 
for  he  has  always  been  Fred  Ramer's  tool,  and 
Father  Josef  never  trusted  him.  And  to  think 
that  Bill  Banney,  in  no  way  touching  any  of  our 
lives,  should  have  been  martyred  by  the  crimes  of 
Fred  and  this  Apache!  But  that's  the  old,  old 
story  of  the  trail.  Poor  Bill!  I  hope  his  sleep 
will  be  sweet  out  in  this  desolate  land.  We'll 
meet  him  later  somewhere." 

The  winds  must  have  carried  the  tale  of  poisoned 
water  across  the  Cimarron  country,  for  the  Co- 
manches'  trail  left  ours  from  that  day.  Through 
threescore  and  ten  miles  to  the  Arkansas  River  we 
came,  and  there  was  not  a  well  nor  spring  nor  sign 
of  water  in  all  that  distance.  What  water  we  had 
we  carried  with  us  from  the  Cimarron  fountains. 
But  the  sturdy  endurance  of  the  days  was  not 
without  its  help  to  me.  And  the  wide,  wind-swept 
prairies  of  Kansas  taught  me  many  things.  In 
the  lonely,  beautiful  land,  through  long  bright  days 
and  starlit  nights,  I  began  to  see  things  bigger 
than  my  own  selfish  measure  had  reckoned.  I 
thought  of  Esmond  Clarenden  and  his  large 
scheme  of  business;  Felix  Narveo,  the  true- 
hearted  friend;  and  of  Father  Josef  and  his  life 
of  devotion.  And  I  lived  with  Jondo  every  day. 
I  could  not  forget  the  hour  in  the  little  ruined 
chapel  in  the  San  Christobal  Valley,  and  how  he 
himself  had  made  no  effort  to  clear  his  own  name. 

303 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

But  I  remembered,  too,  that  Father  Josef,  merci- 
lessly just  to  Ferdinand  Ramero,  had  not  even 
asked  Jondo  to  defend  himself  from  the  black 
charge  against  him. 

The  sunny  Kansas  prairies,  the  far  open  plains, 
and  the  wild  mountain  trails  beyond,  had  brought 
their  blessing  to  Jondo,  whose  life  had  known  so 
much  of  tragedy.  And  my  cross  was  just  my  love 
for  a  girl  who  could  not  love  me.  That  was  all. 
Jondo  had  never  forgotten  nor  ceased  to  love  the 
mother  of  Eloise  St.  Vrain.  I  should  be  like  Jondo 
in  this.  But  the  world  is  wide.  Life  is  full  of  big 
things.  Henceforth,  while  I  would  not  forget,  I, 
too,  would  be  big  and  strong,  and  maybe,  some 
time,  just  as  sunny-faced  as  my  big  Jondo. 

The  trail  life,  day  by  day,  did  bring  its  blessing 
to  me.  The  clear,  open  land,  the  far-sweeping 
winds,  the  solitude  for  thought,  the  bravery  and 
gentleness  of  the  rough  men  who  walked  the  miles 
with  me,  the  splendor  of  the  day-dawn,  the  beauty 
of  the  sunset,  the  peace  of  the  still  starlit  night, 
sealed  up  my  wounds,  and  I  began  to  live  for 
others  and  to  forget  myself;  to  dream  less  often, 
and  to  work  more  gladly;  to  measure  men,  not  by 
what  had  been,  but  by  how  they  met  what  was  to 
be  done. 

From  all  the  frontier  life,  rough-hewn  and  coarse, 
the  elements  came  that  helped  to  make  the  big 
brave  West  to-day,  and  I  know  now  that  not  the 
least  of  source  and  growth  of  power  for  these  came 
out  of  the  strength  and  strife  of  the  things  known 
only  to  the  men  who  followed  the  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

304 


Ill 

DEFENDING   THE   TRAIL 


XVIII 

WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT   DOWN 

The  mind  hath  a  thousand  eyes, 
And  the  heart  but  one. 

— BOURDILLON. 

BUSY  years,  each  one  a  dramatic  era  all  its  own, 
made  up  the  annals  of  the  Middle  West  as 
the  nation  began  to  feel  the  thrill  for  expansion  in 
its  pulse-beat.  The  territorial  days  of  Kansas 
were  big  with  the  tragic  events  of  border  warfare, 
and  her  birth  into  statehood  marked  the  com- 
mencement of  the  four  years  of  civil  strife  whose 
record  played  a  mighty  part  in  shaping  human 
destiny. 

Meanwhile  the  sunny  Kansas  prairies  lay  wait- 
ing for  the  hearthstone  and  the  plow.  And 
young  men,  trained  in  camp  and  battlefield, 
looked  westward  for  adventure,  fortune,  future 
homes  and  fame.  But  the  tribes,  whose  hunting- 
grounds  had  been  the  green  and  grassy  plains, 
yielded  slowly,  foot  by  foot,  their  stubborn  claim, 
marking  in  human  blood  the  price  of  each  acre  of 
the  prairie  sod.  The  lonely  homesteads  were  the 
prey  of  savage  bands,  and  the  old  Santa  F6  Trail, 

307 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

always  a  way  of  danger,  became  doubly  perilous 
now  to  the  men  who  drove  the  vans  of  commerce 
along  its  broad,  defenseless  miles.  The  frontier 
forts  increased:  Hays  and  Harker,  Larned  and 
Zarah,  and  Lyon  and  Dodge  became  outposts  of 
power  in  the  wilderness,  whose  half -forgotten  sites 
to-day  lie  buried  under  broad  pasture-lands  and 
fields  of  waving  grain. 

One  June  day,  as  the  train  rolled  through  the 
Missouri  woodlands  along  rugged  river  bluffs, 
Beverly  Clarenden  and  I  looked  eagerly  out  of  the 
car  window,  watching  for  signs  of  home.  It  was 
two  years  after  the  close  of  the  Civil  War.  We  had 
just  finished  six  years  of  Federal  service  and  were 
coming  back  to  Kansas  City.  We  were  young 
men  still,  with  all  the  unsettled  spirit  that  follows 
the  laying  aside  of  active  military  life  for  the 
wholesome  but  uneventful  life  of  peace. 

The  time  of  our  arrival  had  been  uncertain,  and 
the  Clarenden  household  had  been  taken  by  sur- 
prise at  our  coming. 

"I  wonder  how  it  will  seem  to  settle  down  in  a 
store,  Bev,  after  toting  shooting-irons  for  six 
years,"  I  said  to  my  cousin,  as  the  train  neared 
Kansas  City. 

"I  don't  know,"  Beverly  replied,  with  a  yawn, 
"but  I'm  thinking  that  after  we  see  all  the  folks, 
and  play  with  Mat's  little  boys  awhile,  and  eat 
Aunty  Boone's  good  stuff  till  we  begin  to  get 
flabby-cheeked  and  soft-muscled,  and  our  jaws 
crack  from  smiling  so  much  when  we  just  naturally 
want  to  get  out  and  cuss  somebody — about  that 

308 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT   DOWN 

time  I'll  be  ready  to  run  away,  if  I  have  to  turn 
Dog  Indian  to  do  it." 

"There's  a  new  Clarenden  store  at  a  place  called 
Burlingame  out  in  Kansas  now,  somewhere  on  the 
old  trail.  Maybe  it  will  be  far  enough  away  to  let 
you  get  tamed  gradually  to  civil  life  there,  if 
Uncle  Esmond  thinks  you  are  worth  it,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

' '  Rex  Krane  is  to  take  charge  of  that  as  soon  as 
we  get  home.  Yonder  are  the  spires  and  minarets 
and  domes  of  Kansas  City.  Put  on  your  company 
grin,  Gail,"  Beverly  replied,  as  we  began  to  run  by 
the  huts  ana  cabins  forming  the  outworks  of  the 
little  city  at  the  Kaw's  mouth. 

Six  years  had  made  many  changes  in  the  place, 
but  the  same  old  welcome  awaited  us,  and  we 
became  happy-hearted  boys  again  as  we  climbed 
the  steep  road  up  the  bluff  to  the  Clarenden  house. 
On  the  wide  veranda  overlooking  the  river  every- 
body except  one — Bill  Banney,  sleeping  under  the 
wind-caressed  sod  beside  the  Cimarron  spring — 
was  waiting  to  greet  us.  There  were  Esmond 
Clarenden  and  Jondo,  in  the  prime  of  middle  life, 
the  one  a  little  bald,  and  more  than  a  little  stout; 
the  other's  heavy  hair  was  streaked  with  gray,  but 
the  erect  form  and  tremendous  physical  strength 
told  how  well  the  plains  life  had  fortified  the  man  of 
fifty  for  the  years  before  him.  The  prairies  had 
long  since  become  his  home ;  but  whether  in  scout 
service  for  the  Government,  or  as  wagon-master 
for  a  Clarenden  train  on  the  trail,  he  was  the 
same  big,  brave,  loyal  Jondo. 

309 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

And  there  was  Rex  Krane,  tall,  easy-going  old 
Rex,  with  his  wife  beside  him.  Mat  was  a  fair- 
faced  young  matron  now,  with  something  Ma- 
donna-like in  her  calm  poise  and  kindly  spirit. 
Two  little  boys,  Esmond,  and  Rex,  Junior,  clinging 
to  her  gown,  smiled  a  shy  welcome  at  us. 

In  the  background  loomed  the  shining  face  and 
huge  form  of  Aunty  Boone.  She  had  never  seemed 
bigger  to  me,  even  in  my  little-boy  days,  when  I 
considered  her  a  giant.  Her  eyes  grew  dull  as  she 
looked  at  us. 

"Clean  faces  and  finger-nails  now.  Got  to 
stain  'em  up  'bout  once  more  'fore  you  are 
through.  Hungry  as  ever,  I'll  bet.  I'll  get  your 
supper  right  away.  Whoo-ee!" 

As  she  turned  away,  Mat  said : 

"There  is  somebody  else  here,  boys,  that  you 
will  be  glad  to  meet.  She  has  just  come  and 
doesn't  even  know  that  you  are  expected.  It  is 
'Little  Lees.'  " 

A  rustle  of  silken  skirts,  a  faint  odor  of  blossoms, 
a  footfall,  a  presence,  and  Eloise  St.  Vrain  stood 
before  us.  Eloise,  with  her  golden  hair,  the  girlish 
roundness  of  her  fair  face,  her  big  dark  eyes  and 
their  heavy  lashes  and  clear-penciled  brows,  her 
dainty  coloring,  and  beyond  all  these  the  beauty 
of  womanly  strength  written  in  her  countenance. 

Her  dress  was  a  sort  of  pale  heliotrope,  with 
trimmings  of  a  deeper  shade,  and  in  her  hands  she 
carried  a  big  bunch  of  June  roses.  She  stopped 
short,  and  the  pink  cheeks  grew  pale,  but  in  an 
instant  the  rich  bloom  came  back  to  them  again. 

310 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT    DOWN 

' '  I  tried  to  find  you,  Eloise.  The  boys  have  iust 
come  in  almost  unannounced,"  Mat  said. 

"You  didn't  mean  to  hide  from  us,  of  course," 
Beverly  broke  in,  as  he  took  the  girl's  hand,  his 
face  beaming  with  genuine  joy  at  meeting  her 
again. 

Eloise  met  him  with  the  same  frank  delight 
with  which  she  always  greeted  him.  Everything 
seemed  so  simple  and  easy  for  these  two  when  they 
came  together.  Little  Blue  Flower  was  right 
about  them.  They  seemed  to  fit  each  other. 

But  when  she  turned  to  me  her  eyes  were  down- 
cast, save  for  just  one  glance.  I  feel  it  yet,  and 
the  soft  touch  of  her  hand  as  it  lay  in  mine  a 
moment. 

I  think  we  chatted  all  together  for  a  while.  I 
had  a  wound  at  Malvern  Hill  that  used  to  make 
me  dizzy.  That,  or  an  older  wound,  made  my 
pulse  frantic  now.  I  know  that  it  was  a  rare 
June  day,  and  the  breeze  off  the  river  came  pouring 
caressingly  over  the  bluff.  I  remember  later  that 
Uncle  Esmond  and  Jondo  and  Rex  Krane  went 
to  the  Clarenden  store,  and  that  Mat  was  helping 
Aunty  Boone  inside,  while  Beverly  let  the  two 
little  Kranes  take  him  down  the  slope  to  see  some 
baby  squirrels  or  something.  And  Eloise  and  I 
were  left  alone  beneath  the  trees,  where  once  we 
had  sat  together  long  ago  in  the  "Moon  of  the 
Peach  Blossom."  For  me,  all  the  strength  of  the 
years  wherein  I  had  built  a  wall  around  my  longing 
love,  all  my  manly  loyalty  to  my  cousin's  claims, 
were  swept  away,  as  I  have  seen  the  big  Missouri 

21  311 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

floods,  joined  by  the  lesser  Kaw,  sweep  out 
bridges,  snapping  like  sticks  before  their  power. 

"Eloise,  it  seems  a  hundred  years  since  I  saw 
you  and  Little  Blue  Flower  ride  away  up  the  San 
Christobal  River  trail  out  of  my  sight,"  I  said. 

' '  It  has  been  a  long  time,  but  we  are  not  yet  old. 
You  seem  the  same.  And  as  for  me,  I  feel  as  if 
the  clock  had  stopped  awhile  and  had  suddenly 
started  to  ticking  anew." 

It  was  wonderful  to  sit  beside  her  and  hear  her 
voice  again.  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  about  her 
mother,  but  I  am  sure  she  read  my  thoughts,  for 
she  went  on : 

"My  mother  is  gone  now.  She  was  as  happy  as 
a  child  and  never  had  a  sorrow  on  her  mind  after 
her  dreadful  fever,  although  the  doctors  say  she 
might  have  been  restored  if  I  had  only  been  with 
her  then.  But  it  is  all  ended  now." 

Eloise  paused  with  saddened  face,  and  looked 
out  toward  the  Missouri  River,  boiling  with  June 
rains  and  melted  snows. 

"It  is  all  right  now,"  she  went  on,  bravely. 
"Sister  Gloria — you  know  who  she  was — stayed 
with  me  to  the  last.  And  I  have  a  real  mound 
of  earth  in  the  cemetery  beside  my  father." 
The  last  two  words  were  spoken  softly.  "Sister 
Gloria  is  in  the  convent  now.  Marcos  is  a  common 
gambler.  His  father  disappeared  and  left  him 
penniless.  Esmond  Clarenden  says  that  his  father 
died  out  on  the  plains  somewhere." 

"And  Father  Josef?"  I  inquired. 

"Is  still  the  same  strong  friend  to  everybody. 
312 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT    DOWN 

He  spends  much  time  among  the  Hopi  people. 
I  don't  know  why,  for  they  are  hopelessly  heathen. 
Their  own  religion  has  so  many  beautiful  things 
to  offset  our  faith  that  they  are  hard  to  convert." 

"And  Little  Blue  Flower — what  became  of  her?" 
I  asked.  ' '  Is  she  a  squaw  in  some  hogan  or  pueblo, 
after  all  that  the  Sisterhood  of  St.  Ann's  did  for 
her?" 

A  shadow  fell  on  the  bright  face  beside  me. 

"Let's  not  talk  of  her  to-day."  There  was  a 
pleading  note  in  Eloise's  voice.  "Life  has  its 
tragedies  everywhere,  but  I  sometimes  think 
that  none  of  them — American,  English,  Spanish, 
French,  Mexican,  nor  any  others  of  our  pale-faced 
people,  have  quite  such  bitter  acts  as  the  Indian 
tragedy  among  a  gentle  race  like  the  people  of 
Hopi-land." 

"I  hope  you  will  stay  with  us  now." 

I  didn't  know  what  I  really  did  hope  for.  I  was 
no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  young  man  in  the  very  best 
of  young  manhood's  years.  I  had  seen  this  girl 
ride  away  from  me  without  one  good-by  word  or 
glance.  I  had  heard  her  message  to  me  through 
Little  Blue  Flower.  I  had  suffered  and  out- 
grown all  but  the  scar.  And  now  one  touch  of  her 
hand,  one  smile,  one  look  from  her  beautiful  eyes, 
and  all  the  barrier  of  the  years  fell  down.  I  won- 
dered vaguely  now  about  Beverly's  wish  to  turn 
Dog  Indian  if  things  became  too  monotonous.  I 
wondered  about  many  things,  but  I  could  not 
think  anything. 

"I  have  no  present  plans.  Father  Josef  and 
313 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Esmond  Clarenden  thought  it  would  be  well  for 
me  to  come  up  to  Kansas  and  look  at  green  prairies 
instead  of  red  mesas  for  a  while ;  to  rest  my  eyes, 
and  get  my  strength  again — which  I  have  never 
lost,"  Eloise  said,  with  a  smile.  "And  Jondo 
says — " 

She  did  not  tell  me  what  Jondo  had  said,  for 
Beverly  and  Mat  and  the  two  rollicking  boys 
joined  us  just  then  and  we  talked  of  many  things 
of  the  earlier  years. 

I  cannot  tell  how  that  June  slipped  by,  nor  how 
Eloise,  in  the  full  bloom  of  her  young  womanhood, 
with  the  burdens  lifted  from  her  heart  and  hands, 
was  no  more  the  clinging,  crushed  Eloise  who  had 
sat  beside  me  in  the  church  of  San  Miguel,  but  a 
self-reliant  and  deliciously  companionable  girl- 
woman.  With  Beverly  she  was  always  gay, 
matching  him,  mood  for  mood;  and  if  sometimes  I 
caught  the  fleeting  edge  of  a  shadow  in  her  eyes,  it 
was  gone  too  soon  to  measure.  I  did  not  seek  her 
company  alone,  because  I  knew  that  I  could  not 
trust  myself.  Over  and  over,  Jondo's  words,  when 
he  had  told  me  the  story  of  Mary  Marchland, 
came  back  to  me : 

"And  although  they  loved  each  other  always, 
they  never  saw  each  other  again." 

Nobody,  outside  of  those  touched  by  it,  knew 
Jondo's  story,  except  myself.  He  was  Theron 
St.  Vrain's  brother,  yet  Eloise  never  called  him 
uncle,  and,  except  for  the  one  mention  of  her 
father's  grave,  she  did  not  speak  of  him.  He  was 
not  even  a  memory  to  her.  And  both  men's 

3U 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT    DOWN 

names  were  forever  stained  with  the  black  charge 
against  them. 

One  evening  in  late  June,  Uncle  Esmond  called 
me  into  council. 

"Gail,  Rex  leaves  to-morrow  for  the  new  store 
at  Burlingame,  Kansas.  It  is  two  days  out  on  the 
Santa  Fe  Trail.  Bev  will  go  with  him  and  stay 
for  a  while.  I  want  you  to  drive  through  with 
Mat  and  the  children  and  Eloise  a  dav  or  two 
later." 

' '  Eloise  ?"     I  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Yes;  she  will  visit  with  Mat  for  a  while.  She 
has  had  some  trying  years  that  have  taxed  her 
heavily.  The  best  medicine  for  such  is  the  song  of 
the  prairie  winds,"  Uncle  Esmond  replied. 

"And  after  that?"  I  insisted. 

"We  will  wait  for  'after  that'  till  it  gets  here," 
my  uncle  smiled  as  he  spoke.  "There  are  more 
serious  things  on  hand  than  where  out  Little  Lees 
will  eat  her  meals.  She  seems  able  to  take  care 
of  herself  anywhere.  Wonderfully  beautiful  and 
charming  young  woman  she  is,  and  her  troubles 
have  strengthened  her  character  without  robbing 
her  of  her  youth  and  happy  spirits." 

Esmond  Clarenden  spoke  reminiscently,  and  I 
stared  at  him  in  surprise  until  suddenly  I  remem- 
bered that  Jondo  had  said,  "We  were  all  in  love 
with  Mary  Marchland."  Eloise  must  seem  to 
him  and  Jondo  like  the  Mary  Marchland  they  had 
known  in  their  young  manhood.  But  my  uncle's 
mood  passed  quickly,  and  his  face  was  very  grave 
as  he  said : 

3*5 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

"The  conditions  out  on  the  frontier  are  serious 
in  every  way  right  now.  The  Indians  are  on  the 
war-path,  leaving  destruction  wherever  they  set 
foot.  Something  must  be  done  to  protect  the 
wagon-trains  on  the  Santa  Fe  Trail.  I  have  al- 
ready lost  part  of  two  valuable  loads  this  season, 
and  Narveo  has  lost  three.  But  the  appalling  loss 
of  property  is  nothing  compared  to  the  terror  and 
torture  to  human  life.  The  settlers  on  the  frontier 
claims  are  being  massacred  daily.  The  Governor 
of  Kansas  is  doing  all  he  can  to  get  some  action 
from  the  army  leaders  at  Washington.  But  you 
haven't  been  in  military  service  for  six  years  with- 
out finding  out  that  some  army  leaders  are  flesh 
and  blood,  and  some  are  only  wood-plain  wooden 
wood.  Meantime,  the  story  of  one  butchery 
doesn't  get  to  the  Missouri  River  before  the  story 
of  another  catches  up  with  it.  It's  bad  enough 
when  it's  ruinous  to  just  my  own  commercial 
business — but  in  cases  like  this,  humanity  is  my 
business." 

What  a  man  he  was — that  Esmond  Clarenden! 
They  still  say  of  him  in  Kansas  City  that  no 
sounder  financier  and  no  bigger-hearted  humani- 
tarian ever  walked  the  streets  of  that  "Gateway 
to  the  Southwest"  than  the  brave  little  merchant- 
plainsman  who  builded  for  the  generations  that 
should  follow  him. 

"What  will  be  the  outcome,  Uncle  Esmond? 
Are  we  to  lose  all  we  have  gained  out  here?"  I 
asked. 

"Not  if  we  are  real  Westerners.     It's  got  to  be 


WHEN  THE  SUN  WENT  DOWN 

stopped.  The  question  is,  how  soon,"  my  uncle 
replied. 

That  night  in  a  half -waking  dream  I  remembered 
Aunty  Boone's  prophetic  greeting  a  few  days  be- 
fore, and  how  her  eyes  had  narrowed  and  grown 
dull  as  she  said,  "One  more  stainin'  of  your  hands 
'fore  you  are  through." 

I  had  given  six  good  years  to  army  service — the 
years  which  young  men  give  to  college  and  to 
establishing  themselves  in  their  life-work.  But  the 
vision  of  the  three  men  whom  I  had  seen  under  the 
elm-tree  at  Fort  Leavenworth  came  back  to  me, 
and  only  one — the  cavalry  man — moved  west- 
ward now.  I  knew  that  I  was  dreaming,  but  I  did 
not  want  to  waken  till  the  vision  of  a  fair  face 
whose  eyes  looked  into  mine  should  come  to  make 
my  dream  sweet  and  restful. 

But  in  my  waking  hours,  in  spite  of  the  gravity 
of  conditions  that  troubled  Esmond  Clarenden,  in 
spite  of  the  terrible  tidings  of  daily  killings  on  the 
unprotected  plains,  I  forgot  everything  except  the 
girl  beside  me  as  I  went  with  her  and  Mat  and  the 
children  to  the  new  home  in  the  village  of  Bur- 
lingame  beside  the  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

Eloise  St.  Vrain  had  come  up  to  Kansas  to  let 
the  green  prairies  shut  out  the  memory  of  tall  red 
mesas.  About  the  little  town  of  Burlingame  the 
prairies  were  waiting  for  her  eyes  to  see.  It 
nestled  beside  a  deep  creek  under  the  shelter  of 
forest  trees,  with  the  green  prairie  lapping  up  to  its 
edges  on  every  side.  The  trail  wound  round  the 
shoulder  of  a  low  hill,  and,  crossing  the  stream,  it 

317 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

made  the  main  street  of  the  town,  then  wandered 
on  westward  to  where  a  rim  of  ground  shut  the 
view  of  its  way  from  the  settlement  under  the 
trees  by  the  creek.  A  stanch  little  settlement  it 
was,  and,  like  many  Kansas  towns  of  the  '6o's, 
with  big,  but  never-to-be  realized,  ambition  to 
become  a  city.  Into  its  life  and  up  -  building 
Rex  Krane  was  to  throw  his  good  -  natured 
Yankee  shrewdness,  and  Mat  her  calm,  generous 
spirit;  vanguards  they  were,  among  the  home- 
makers  of  a  great  State. 

My  stay  in  the  place  was  brief,  and  I  saw  little  of 
Eloise  until  the  evening  before  I  was  to  return  to 
Kansas  City.  I  had  meant  to  go  away,  as  she  had 
left  me  in  the  San  Christobal  Valley,  without  one 
backward  look,  but  I  couldn't  do  it;  and  at  the 
close  of  my  last  day  I  went  to  the  Krane  home, 
where  I  found  her  alone.  It  was  the  long  after- 
sunset  hour,  with  the  refreshing  evening  breezes 
pouring  in  from  all  the  green  levels  about  us. 

1 '  Rex  is  at  the  store,  and  the  others  are  all  gone 
fishing,"  Eloise  said,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry  for 
the  family. 

"Mat  and  Bev  always  did  go  fishing  on  every 
occasion  that  I  can  remember,  and  they  will  make 
fishermen  of  little  Esmond  and  Rex  now.  Would 
you  like  to  go  up  to  the  west  side  of  town  and  look 
into  New  Mexico?"  I  asked,  wondering  why  Bever- 
ly should  go  fishing  with  Mat  when  Eloise  was 
waiting  for  his  smile. 

But  I  was  desperately  lonely  to-night,  and  I 
might  not  see  Eloise  again  until  after  she  and 

318 


WHEN   THE   SUN   WENT    DOWN 

Beverly —  I  could  not  go  farther.  She  smiled  and 
said,  lightly: 

"I'm  just  honin'  for  a  walk,  as  Aunty  Boone 
would  say,  but  I'm  not  quite  ready  to  see  New 
Mexico  yet." 

"Oh,  it's  only  a  thing  made  of  evening  mists 
rising  from  the  meadows,  and  bits  of  sunset 
lights  left  over  when  the  day  was  finished,"  I 
assured  her. 

So  we  left  the  shadow  of  the  tall  elms  and  strolled 
up  the  main  street  toward  the  west. 

Where  the  one  cross-street  cut  the  trail  in  the 
center  of  the  village  there  was  a  public  well. 
The  ground  around  it  was  trampled  into  mud  by 
many  hoofs.  A  Mexican  train  had  just  come  in 
and  was  grouped  about  this  well,  drinking  eagerly. 

"What  news  of  the  plains?"  I  asked  their  leader 
as  we  passed. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  with  the  lady  here,"  he  re- 
plied, bowing  courteously.  "It  is  too  awful.  A 
spear  hung  with  a  scalp  of  pretty  baby  hair  like 
hers.  I  see  it  yet.  The  plains  are  all  alive — alive 
with  hostile  red  men;  and  the  worst  one  of  all — he 
that  had  the  golden  scalp — is  but  a  half-breed 
Cheyenne  Dog.  Never  the  Apaches  were  so  bad 
as  he." 

The  cattle  horned  about  the  well,  with  their 
drivers  shouting  and  struggling  to  direct  them,  as 
we  went  wide  to  avoid  the  mud,  then  passed  up  to 
the  rise  beyond  which  lay  the  old  trail's  westward 
route. 

The  mists  were  rising  from  the  lowlands;  along 
319 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

the  creek  the  sunset  sky  was  all  a  flaming  glory, 
under  whose  deep  splendor  the  June  prairies  lay 
tenderly  green  and  still;  down  in  the  village  the 
sounds  of  the  Mexicans  settling  into  camp;  the 
shouting  of  children,  romping  late ;  and  out  across 
the  levels,  the  mooing  call  of  milking-time  from 
some  far-away  settler's  barn-yard;  a  robin  singing 
a  twilight  song  in  the  elms ;  crickets  chirping  in  the 
long  grass;  and  the  gentle  evening  breeze  sweet 
and  cool  out  of  the  west — such  was  the  setting  for 
us  two.  We  paused  on  the  crest  of  the  ridge  and 
sat  down  to  watch  the  after-glow  of  a  prairie  twi- 
light. We  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time,  but  when 
our  eyes  met  I  knew  the  hour  had  been  made  for 
me.  In  such  an  hour  we  had  sat  beside  the  glisten- 
ing Flat  Rock  down  in  the  Neosho  Valley.  I  was 
a  whole-hearted  boy  when  I  went  down  there,  full 
of  eagerness  for  the  life  of  adventure  on  the  trail, 
and  she  a  girl  just  leaving  boarding-school.  And 
now — life  sweetens  so  with  years. 

"I  think  I  can  understand  why  your  uncle 
thought  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  come  to  Kan- 
sas," Eloise  said  at  last.  "There  is  an  inspiration 
and  soothing  restfulness  in  a  thing  like  this.  Our 
mountains  are  so  huge  and  tragical ;  and  even  their 
silences  are  not  always  gentle.  And  our  plains 
are  dry  and  gray.  And  yet  I  love  the  valley  of  the 
Santa  Fe,  and  the  old  Ortiz  and  Sandia  peaks,  and 
the  red  sunset's  stain  on  the  Sangre-de-Christo. 
Many  a  time  I  have  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  them  for 
help,  as  the  shepherd  did  to  his  Judean  hills  when 
he  sang  his  psalms  of  hope  and  victory." 

320 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT    DOWN 

"Yes,  Nature  is  kind  to  us  if  we  will  let  her  be. 
Jondo  told  me  that  long  ago,  and  I've  proved  it 
since.  But  I  have  always  loved  the  prairies. 
And  this  ridge  here  belongs  to  me,"  I  replied. 

Eloise  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"I'll  tell  you  why.  When  I  was  a  little  boy, 
years  ago,  a  day-dreaming,  eager-hearted  little  boy, 
we  camped  here  one  night.  That  was  my  first 
trip  over  the  trail  to  Santa  Fe.  You  haven't  for- 
gotten it  and  what  a  big  brown  bob-cat  I  looked 
like  when  I  got  there.  I  grew  like  weeds  in  a 
Kansas  corn-field  on  that  trip." 

"Oh,  I  remember  you.  Go  on,"  Eloise  said, 
laughingly. 

"That  night  after  supper,  everybody  had  left 
camp — Mat  and  Bev  were  fishing — and  I  was  alone 
and  lonely,  so  I  came  up  here  to  find  what  I  could 
see  of  the  next  day's  trail.  It  was  such  an  hour 
as  this.  And  as  I  watched  the  twilight  color 
deepen,  my  own  horizon  widened,  and  I  think  the 
soul  of  a  man  began,  in  that  hour,  to  look  out 
through  the  little  boy's  eyes;  and  a  new  mile- 
stone was  set  here  to  make  a  landmark  in  my  life- 
trail.  The  boy  who  went  back  slowly  to  the  camp 
that  night  was  not  the  same  little  boy  that  had 
run  up  here  to  spy  out  the  way  of  the  next  day's 
journey." 

The  afterglow  was  deepening  to  purple;  the 
pink  cloud-flecks  were  turning  gray  in  the  east, 
and  a  kaleidoscope  of  softest  rose  and  tender  green 
and  misty  lavender  filled  the  lengthening  shadows 
of  the  twilight  prairie. 

321 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"Eloise,  I  had  a  longing  that  night,  still  unful- 
filled. I  wish  I  dared  to  tell  you  what  it  was." 

I  turned  to  look  at  the  fair  girl-woman  beside 
me.  In  the  twilight  her  eyes  were  always  like 
stars;  and  the  golden  hair  and  the  pink  bloom  of 
her  cheeks  seemed  richer  in  their  shadowy  setting. 
To-night  her  gown  was  white — like  the  Greek 
dress  she  had  worn  at  Mat's  wedding,  on  the  night 
when  she  met  Beverly  in  the  little  side  porch  at 
midnight.  Why  did  I  recall  that  here? 

"What  was  your  wish,  Gail?"  The  voice  was 
low  and  sweet. 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine  and  she  did  not  draw 
away  from  me. 

"That  I  might  some  day  have  a  real  home  all 
my  own  down  there  among  the  trees.  I  was  a 
little  homesick  boy  that  night,  and  I  came  up  here 
to  watch  the  sunset  and  see  the  open  level  lands 
that  I  have  always  loved.  Eloise,  Jondo  told  me 
once  of  three  young  college  men  who  loved  your 
beautiful  mother,  and  because  of  that  love  they 
never  married  anybody,  but  they  lived  useful, 
happy  lives.  I  can  understand  now  why  they 
should  love  her,  and  why,  because  they  could  not 
have  her  love,  they  would  not  marry  anybody 
else.  One  was  my  uncle  Esmond,  and  one  was 
Father  Josef." 

'.'And  the  third?"  The  voice  was  very  low  and 
a  tremor  shook  the  hand  I  held. 

"He  did  not  tell  me.  And  I  speak  of  it  now 
only  to  show  you  that  in  what  I  want  to  say  I  am 
not  altogether  selfish  and  unkind.  I  love  you, 

322 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT    DOWN 

Eloise.  I  have  loved  you  since  the  day,  long  ago, 
when  your  face  came  before  me  on  the  parade- 
ground  at  Fort  Leavenworth.  I  told  you  of  that 
once  down  on  the  bluff  by  the  Clarenden  home  at 
Kansas  City.  I  shall  love  you,  as  the  Bedouin 
melody  runs, 

Tii  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 

"But  I  know  that  it  will  end  as  Uncle  Esmond's 
and  Father  Josef's  loving  did,  in  my  living  my  life 
alone." 

Eloise  quickly  withdrew  her  hand,  and  the  pain 
in  her  white  face  haunts  me  still. 

"I  do  not  want  to  hurt  you,  oh,  Eloise.  I 
know  I  do  wrong  to  speak,  but  to-night  will  be  the 
last  time.  I  thought  that  night  in  the  church  at 
San  Miguel,  and  that  next  day  when  we  rode  for 
our  lives  together,  that  you  cared  for  me  who 
would  have  walked  through  fire  for  you.  But  in 
that  hour  in  the  little  chapel  a  barrier  came  be- 
tween us.  You  rode  away  without  one  word  or 
glance.  And  I  turned  back  feeling  that  my  soul 
was  falling  into  ruins  like  that  half-ruined  little 
pile  of  stone  that  some  holy  padre  had  built  his 
heart  into  years  and  years  ago.  Then  Little  Blue 
Flower  brought  your  message  to  me  and  I  knew  as 
I  sat  beside  Fort  Marcy's  wall  that  night,  and  saw 
the  sun  go  down,  that  the  light  of  my  life  was  going 
out  with  it." 

"But,  Gail,"  Eloise  exclaimed,  "I  said  I  could 
323 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

not  send  you  any  word,  but  you  would  understand. 
I — I  couldn't  say  any  more  than  that. ' '  Her  voice 
was  full  of  tears  and  she  turned  away  from  me  and 
looked  at  the  last  radiant  tints  edging  the  little 
cloud-flecks  above  the  horizon. 

"Of  course  I  understand  you,  Eloise,  and  I  do 
not  blame  you.  I  never  could  blame  you  for 
anything."  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  "You'll  hate 
me  if  I  say  another  word,"  I  said,  savagely. 

She  rose  up,  too,  and  put  her  hand  on  my  arm. 
Oh,  she  was  beautiful  as  she  stood  beside  me.  So 
many  times  I  have  pictured  her  face,  I  will  not 
try  to  picture  it  as  it  looked  now  in  this  sweet, 
sacred  moment  of  our  lives. 

"Gail,  I  could  never  hate  you.  You  do  not 
understand  me.  I  cannot  help  what  is  past  now. 
I  hoped  you  might  forget.  And  yet—  She 
paused. 

All  men  are  humanly  alike.  In  spite  of  my 
strong  love  for  Beverly  and  my  sense  of  right,  the 
presence  of  the  woman  whose  image  for  so  many 
years  had  been  in  the  sacredest  shrine  of  my  heart, 
Eloise,  in  all  her  beauty  and  her  womanly  strength 
and  purity,  standing  beside  me,  her  hand  still  on 
my  arm — all  overpowered  me. 

I  put  my  arms  about  her  and  held  her  close  to 
me,  kissing  her  forehead,  her  cheek,  her  lips.  The 
world  for  one  long  moment  was  rose-hued  like  the 
sunset's  afterglow;  and  sky  and  prairie,  lowlands 
along  the  winding  creek,  and  tall  elm-trees  above 
the  deepening  shadows,  were  all  engulfed  in  a  mist 
of  golden  glory,  shot  through  with  amethyst  and 


WHEN   THE    SUN   WENT    DOWN 

sapphire,  the  dainty  coraline  pink  of  summer 
dawns,  and  the  iridescent  shimmer  of  mother-of- 
pearl. 

Heaven  opens  to  us  here  and  there  such  mo- 
ments on  the  way  of  life.  And  the  memory  of 
them  lingers  like  perfume  through  all  the  days  that 
follow. 

We  turned  our  faces  toward  the  darkening  vil- 
lage street  and  the  tall  elms  above  the  gathering 
shadows,  and  neither  spoke  a  word  until  we 
reached  the  door  where  I  must  say  good  night. 

"I  cannot  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Little  Lees, 
because  you  let  me  have  a  bit  of  heaven  up  there. 
I  shall  go  away  a  better  man.  And,  remember, 
that  no  blessing  in  your  life  can  be  greater  than  I 
would  wish  for  you  to  have." 

The  brave  white  face  was  before  my  eyes  and 
the  low  voice  was  in  my  ears  long  after  I  had  left 
her  door. 

"Gail,  I  cannot  help  what  has  been,  but  I  do 
not  blame  you.  I  should  almost  wish  myself  shut 
in  again  by  the  tall  red  mesas;  but  maybe,  after  all, 
the  prairies  are  best  for  me.  I  am  glad  I  have 
known  you.  Good  night." 

"Good  night,"  I  said,  and  turned  away. 

And  that  was  all.  The  last  light  of  day  had 
gone  from  the  sky,  and  the  stars  overhead  were 
hidden  by  the  thick  leafage  of  the  Burlingame 
elms. 


XIX 

A  MAN'S  PART 

Don't  you  guess  that  the  things  we're  seeing  now  will  haunt  us 

through  the  years; 

Heaven  and  hell  rolled  into  one,  glory  and  blood  and  tears; 
Life's  pattern  picked  with  a  scarlet  thread,  where  once  we  wove 

with  a  gray, 
To  remind  us  all  how  we  played  our  part  in  the  shock  of  an  epic 

day? 

— ROBERT  W.  SERVICE. 

TTOWEVER  darkly  the  sun  may  go  down  on 
*  1  hope  and  love,  the  real  sun  shines  on,  day 
after  day,  with  its  inexorable  call  to  duty.  In 
less  than  a  week  after  I  had  left  Eloise  and  the 
vague  hope  of  a  home  of  my  own  under  the  big 
elm-trees  of  Burlingame,  Governor  Crawford  of 
Kansas  sent  forth  a  call  for  a  battalion  of  four 
companies  of  soldiers,  and  I  heard  the  call  and 
answered  it. 

It  was  to  be  known  as  the  Eighteenth  Kansas 
Cavalry,  with  Col.  Horace  L.  Moore,  a  veteran 
soldier  of  tried  mettle,  at  the  head.  We  were  to 
go  at  once  to  Fort  Harker,  in  the  valley  of  the 
Smoky  Hill  River,  to  begin  a  campaign  against 
the  Indians,  who  were  laying  waste  the  frontier 

.226 


A    MAN'S    PART 

settlements  and   attacking    wagon- trains  on  the 
Sante  Fe  Trail. 

On  the  evening  before  I  left  home  I  sat  on  the 
veranda  of  the  Clarenden  house,  waiting  for  Uncle 
Esmond  to  join  me,  when  suddenly  Beverly 
Clarenden  strode  over  the  edge  of  the  hill.  The 
sunny  smile  and  the  merry  twinkle  of  his  eye  were 
Bev's  own,  and  there  wasn't  a  line  on  his  face  to 
show  whether  it  belonged  to  the  happy  lover  or  the 
rejected  suitor.  I  thought  I  could  always  read 
his  moods  when  he  had  any.  He  had  none  to- 
night. 

"I  just  got  in  from  Burlingame.  At  what  hour 
do  you  leave  to-morrow?  I'm  going  along  to 
chaperon  you,  as  usual,"  he  declared. 

"Why,  Beverly  Clarenden,  I  thought  you  were 
fixed  at  Burlingame,  selling  molasses  and  calico 
by  the  gallon,"  I  exclaimed,  but  my  real  thought 
was  not  given  to  words. 

"And  let  the  Cheyennes,  and  Kiowas,  and 
Arapahoes,  and  other  desperadoes  of  the  plains 
gnaw  clear  into  the  heart  of  us?  Not  your  uncle 
Esmond  Clarenden's  nephew.  And,  Gail,  this 
won't  be  anything  like  we  have  had  since  those 
six  Kiowas  staked  you  out  on  Pawnee  Rock  once. 
The  thoroughbred  Indians  are  bad  enough,  but 
there  is  a  half-breed  leader  of  a  band  of  Dog 
Indians  that's  worst  of  all.  He's  of  the  yellow 
kind,  with  wolf's  fangs.  A  Mexican  on  the  trail 
told  me  that  this  half-breed  ties  up  with  the  worst 
of  every  tribe  from  the  Coast  Range  mountains  to 
Tecumseh,  Kansas,"  Beverly  declared. 
22  327 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

"I  remember  that  Mexican.  I  saw  him  at  the 
well  in  Burlingame,"  I  replied,  turning  to  look  at 
the  Kaw  winding  far  away,  for  the  memory  of 
everything  in  Burlingame  was  painful  to  me. 

Aunty  Boone's  huge  form  appearing  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  shut  off  my  view  of  the  river 
just  then.  Her  face  was  glistening,  but  her  eyes 
were  dull  as  she  looked  us  over. 

"You  stainin'  your  hands  again,"  she  purred. 

"Yes,  Aunty.  We  are  going  to  lick  the  red- 
skins into  ribbons,"  Beverly  replied. 

"You  never  get  that  done.  Lickin'  never  settles 
nobody.  You  just  hold  'em  down  till  they  strong 
enough  to  boost  you  off  their  heads  again,  and  up 
they  come.  Whoo-ee!" 

The  black  woman  gave  a  chuckle. 

"Well,  I'd  rather  sit  on  their  heads  than  have 
them  sitting  on  mine,  or  yours,  Aunty  Boone," 
Beverly  returned,  laughingly. 

Aunty  Boone's  eyes  narrowed  and  there  was  a 
strange  light  in  them  as  she  looked  at  us,  saying : 

"You  get  into  trouble,  Mr.  Bev,  you  see  me 
comin',  hot  streaks,  to  help  you  out.  Whoo-ee!" 

She  breathed  her  weird,  African  whoop  and 
turned  away. 

' '  I'll  depend  on  you."  Beverly's  face  was  bright, 
and  there  was  no  shadow  in  his  eyes,  as  he  called 
after  her  retreating  form. 

We  chatted  long  together,  and  I  hoped — and 
feared — to  have  him  tell  me  the  story  of  his  suit 
with  Eloise,  and  why  in  such  a  day,  of  all  the 
days  of  his  life,  he  should  choose  to  run  away  to 

328 


A    MAN'S    PART 

the  warfare  of  the  frontier.  He  could  not  have 
failed,  I  thought.  Never  a  disappointed  lover 
wore  a  smile  like  this.  But  Beverly  had  no  story 
to  tell  me  that  night. 

The  mid- July  sun  was  shining  down  on  a  treeless 
landscape,  across  which  the  yellow,  foam-flecked 
Smoky  Hill  River  wound  its  sinuous  way.  Beside 
this  stream  was  old  Fort  Harker,  a  low  quadrangle 
of  quarters,  for  military  man  and  beast,  grouped 
about  a  parade-ground  for  companionship  rather 
than  for  protection.  The  frontier  fort  had  little 
need  for  defensive  strength.  About  its  walls  the 
Indian  crawled  submissively,  fearful  of  munitions 
and  authority.  It  was  not  here,  but  out  on  lonely 
trails,  in  sudden  ambush,  or  in  overwhelming  num- 
bers, or  where  long  miles,  cut  off  from  water,  or 
exhausting  distance  banished  safe  retreat,  that 
the  savage  struck  in  all  his  fury. 

Eastward  from  Harker  the  scattered  frontier 
homesteads  crouched,  defenseless,  in  the  river 
valleys.  Far  to  the  northwest  spread  the  deso- 
late lengths  of  a  silent  land  where  the  white  man's 
foot  had  hardly  yet  been  set.  Miles  away  to  the 
southwest  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  wound  among  the 
Arkansas  sand-hills,  never,  in  all  its  history,  less 
safe  for  freighters  than  in  that  summer  of  1867. 

In  this  vast  demesne  the  raiding  Cheyenne,  the 
cruel  Kiowa,  the  blood-thirsty  Arapahoe,  with 
bands  of  Dog  Indians  and  outlaws  from  every 
tribe,  contested,  foot  by  foot,  for  supremacy 
a.gainst  the  out-reaching  civilization  of  the  domi- 

329 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

nant  Anglo-American.  The  lonely  trails  were 
measured  off  by  white  men's  graves.  The  vagrant 
winds  that  bear  the  odor  of  alfalfa,  and  of  orchard 
bloom  to-day,  were  laden  often  with  the  smoke  of 
burning  homes,  and  often,  too,  they  bore  that 
sickening  smell  of  human  flesh,  once  caught,  never 
to  be  forgotten.  The  story  of  that  struggle  for 
supremacy  is  a  tragic  drama  of  heroism  and  en- 
durance. In  it  the  Eighteenth  Kansas  Cavalry 
played  a  stirring  part. 

It  seems  but  yesterday  to  me  now,  that  July 
day  so  many  years  ago,  when  our  four  compa- 
nies, numbering  fewer  than  four  hundred  men, 
detrained  from  the  Union  Pacific  train  at  Fort 
Harker  on  the  Smoky  Hill.  And  the  faces  of  the 
men  who  were  to  lead  us  are  clear  in  memory. 
Our  commander,  Colonel  Moore,  always  brave 
and  able;  and  our  captains,  Henry  Lindsay,  and 
Edgar  Barker,  and  George  Jenness,  and  David 
Payne,  with  the  shrewd,  courageous  scout,  Allison 
Pliley,  and  the  undaunted,  clear-thinking,  young 
lieutenant,  Frank  Stahl.  Ours  was  not  to  be  a 
record  of  unfading  glory,  as  national  military  an- 
nals show,  yet  it  may  count  mightily  when  the 
Great  Records  are  opened  for  final  estimates. 
Those  men  who  marched  two  thousand  miles,  back 
and  forth,  upon  the  trackless  plains  in  that  four 
months'  campaign,  have  been  forgotten  in  the 
debris  of  uneventful  years.  Our  long-faded  trails 
lie  buried  under  wide  alfalfa-fields  and  the  paved 
streets  of  western  Kansas  towns.  From  the  far 
springs  that  quenched  our  burning  thirst  comes 

330 


A   MAN'S    PART 

water,  trickling  through  a  nickel  faucet  into  a 
marble  basin,  now.  Where  the  fierce  sun  seared 
our  eyeballs,  in  a  treeless,  barren  waste,  green 
groves,  a-tune  with  song-birds,  cast  long  swaths 
of  shade  on  verdant  sod.  The  perils  and  the 
hardships  of  the  Eighteenth  Kansas  Cavalry  are 
now  but  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

And  yet  of  all  the  heroes  whose  life-trails  cut 
my  own,  I  account  among  the  greatest  those  men 
under  whose  command,  and  with  whose  comrade- 
ship, I  went  out  to  serve  the  needs  of  my  genera- 
tion among  the  vanguards  of  the  plains.  And  if 
in  a  sunset  hour  on  the  west  ridge  beyond  the  little 
town  of  Burlingame  I  had  left  a  hopeless  love 
behind  me,  I  put  a  man's  best  energy  into  the 
thing  before  me. 

The  battle-field  alone  is  not  the  soldier's  greatest 
test.  I  had  kept  step  with  men  who  charge  an 
enemy  on  an  open  plain  or  storm  a  high  defense 
in  the  face  of  sure  defeat.  I  had  been  ordered 
with  my  company  to  take  redoubts  against  the 
flaming  throats  of  bellowing  cannon  in  the  life- 
and-death  grip  before  Richmond.  I  had  felt  the 
awful  thrill  of  carnage  as  my  division  surged  back 
and  forth  across  the  blood-soaked  lengths  of 
Gettysburg,  and  I  never  once  fell  behind  my  com- 
rades. The  battle-field  breeds  courage,  and  self- 
forgetfulness,  and  exaltation,  from  the  sense  of 
duty  squarely  met. 

There  were  no  battle-fields  in  1867,  where  Greek 
met  Greek  in  splendid  gallantry,  out  on  the  Kansas 
plains.  Over  Fort  Harker  hung  the  pall  of  death, 

33 1 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

and  in  the  July  heat  the  great  black  plague  of 
Asiatic  cholera  stalked  abroad  and  scourged  the 
land.  Men  were  dying  like  rats,  lacking  every- 
thing that  helps  to  drive  death  back.  The  volun- 
teer who  had  offered  himself  to  save  the  settlers 
from  the  scalping-knife  had  come  here  only  to 
look  into  an  open  grave,  and  then,  in  agony,  to 
drop  into  it.  Such  things  test  soldiers  more  than 
battle-fields.  And  our  men  turned  back  in  fear, 
preferring  the  deserter's  shame  to  quick,  inglorious 
martyrdom  by  Asiatic  cholera.  I  had  a  battle  of 
my  own  the  first  night  at  Fort  Marker.  There  was 
a  growing  moon  and  the  night  breeze  was  cool 
after  the  heat  of  the  day.  Beverly  Clarenden  and 
I  went  down  to  the  river,  whose  tawny  waters 
hardly  hid  the  tawny  sands  beneath  them.  The 
plains  were  silent,  but  from  all  the  hospital  tents 
about  the  fort  came  the  sharp,  agonized  cries  of 
pain  that  forerun  the  last  collapse  of  the  plague- 
stricken  sufferers.  To  get  away  from  the  sound 
of  it  all  we  wandered  down  the  stream  to  where 
the  banks  of  soft,  caving  earth  on  the  farther  side 
were  higher  than  a  man's  head,  and  their  shadow 
hid  the  current.  We  sat  down  and  stared  silently 
at  the  waters,  scarcely  whispering  as  they  rolled 
along,  and  at  the  still  shade  of  the  farther  bank 
upon  them.  The  shadows  thickened  and  moved 
a  little,  then  grew  still.  We  also  grew  still.  Then 
they  moved  again  just  opposite  us,  and  fell  into 
three  parts,  as  three  men  glided  silently  along 
under  the  bank's  protecting  gloom.  We  waited 
until  they  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  moonlight, 

332 


A    MAN'S    PART 

and  saw  three  soldiers  pass  swiftly  out  across  the  un- 
protected sands  to  other  shadowy  places  further  on. 

"Deserters!"  Beverly  said,  half  aloud.  "You 
can  stay  here  if  you  want  to,  Gail.  I'd  rather  go 
up  and  listen  to  those  poor  wretches  groan  than 
stick  down  here  and  listen  to  the  fiend  inside  of 
me  to-night." 

He  rose  and  stalked  away,  and  I  sat  listening  to 
myself.  I  could  join  those  three  men  easily  enough. 
The  world  is  wide.  I  had  no  bond  to  hold  me  to 
one  single  place  in  it.  I  was  young  and  strong,  and 
life  is  sweet.  Why  let  the  black  plague  snuff  me 
out  of  it  ?  I  had  come  here  to  serve  the  State.  I 
should  not  serve  it  in  a  plague-marked  grave.  I 
rose  to  follow  down  the  stream,  to  go  to  where  the 
Smoky  Hill  joins  the  big  Republican  to  make  the 
Kaw,  and  on  to  where  the  Kaw  reaches  to  the 
Missouri.  But  I  would  not  stop  there.  I'd  go 
until  I  reached  the  ocean  somewhere. 

Would  I? 

The  memory  of  Jondo's  eyes  when  they  looked 
into  mine  on  Pawnee  Rock  came  unbidden  across 
my  mind.  Jondo  had  lived  a  nameless  man.  How 
strong  and  helpful  all  his  years  had  been!  How 
starved  had  been  my  life  without  his  love!  I 
would  be  another  Jondo,  somewhere  on  earth. 

I  stared  after  three  faintly  moving  shadows 
down  the  stream.  'Twas  well  I  waited,  for  Es- 
mond Clarenden  came  to  me  now,  clean-cut, 
honest,  everybody's  friend.  How  firm  his  life 
had  been;  and  he  had  built  into  me  a  hatred  of 
deceit  and  lies.  And  Jondo  was  another  Uncle 

333 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

Esmond.  In  spite  of  the  black  shadow  on  his 
name,  he  walked  the  prairies  like  a  prince  always. 
I  could  not  be  like  him  if  I  were  a  deserter.  Up- 
stream death  was  waiting  for  me;  down-stream, 
disgrace.  I  turned  and  followed  up  the  river's 
course,  but  the  strength  that  forced  me  to  it  was 
greater  than  that  which  made  me  brave  on  battle- 
fields. And  ever  since  that  night  beside  the  Smoky 
Hill  I  have  felt  gentler  toward  the  man  who  falls. 

We  were  not  idle  long  for  Fort  Harker  had  just 
been  informed  of  an  assault  on  a  wagon-train  on 
the  Santa  Fe  Trail  and  our  cavalry  squadron  hur- 
ried away  at  once  to  overtake  and  punish  the 
assailants. 

We  came  into  camp  on  the  bank  of  Walnut 
Creek,  at  the  close  of  a  long  summer  day  of  blazing 
light  and  heat  over  the  barren  trails  where  there 
was  no  water;  a  day  of  long  hours  in  the  saddle; 
a  day  of  nerve-wearing  watchfulness.  But  we 
believed  that  we  had  left  the  plague-cursed  region 
behind  us,  so  we  were  light-hearted  and  good- 
natured;  and  we  ate,  and  drank,  and  took  our 
lot  cheerfully. 

Among  the  men  at  mess  that  night  I  saw  a  new 
face  which  was  nothing  remarkable,  except  that 
something  in  it  told  me  that  I  had  already  seen 
that  face  somewhere,  some  time.  It  is  my  gift 
never  to  forget  a  face,  once  seen,  no  matter  how 
many  years  may  pass  before  I  see  it  twice.  This 
soldier  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  too,  and,  in  a  story 
he  was  telling,  clever  at  imitating  others. 

334 


A   MAN'S    PART 

"Who  is  that  man,  Bev?  The  third  one  over 
there?"  I  asked  my  cousin. 

"Stranger  to  me.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  saw 
him  before.  Who  is  the  fellow  with  the  smile, 
Captain?"  Beverly  asked  the  officer  beside  him. 

"I  don't  know.  He's  not  in  my  company.  I'm 
finding  new  faces  every  day,"  the  captain  replied. 

As  twilight  fell  I  saw  the  man  again  at  the  edge 
of  the  camp.  He  smiled  pleasantly  as  he  passed 
me,  turning  to  look  at  Beverly,  who  did  not  see 
him,  and  in  a  minute  he  was  cantering  down  to 
the  creek  beside  our  camp.  I  saw  him  cross  it  and 
ride  quickly  out  of  sight  But  that  smile  brought 
to  the  face  the  thing  that  had  escaped  me. 

"I  know  that  fellow  now,"  I  said  to  Beverly 
and  the  officer  who  came  up  just  then.  "He's 
Charlie  Bent,  the  son  of  Colonel  Bent.  Don't 
you  remember  the  little  sinner  at  old  Fort  Bent, 
Bev?" 

"I  do,  and  what  a  vicious  little  reptile  he  was," 
Beverly  replied.  "But  Uncle  Esmond  told  me 
that  his  father  took  him  away  early  and  had  him 
schooled  like  a  gentleman  in  the  best  Saint  Louis 
had  to  give.  I  wonder  whose  company  he  is  in." 

The  officer  stared  at  us. 

"You  mean  to  say  you  know  that  cavalryman  to 
be  Charlie  Bent?"  he  fairly  gasped. 

"Of  course  it's  Charlie.  I  never  missed  a  face 
in  all  my  life.  That's  his  own,"  I  replied. 

"The  worst  Indian  on  the  plains!"  the  captain 
declared.  "He  stirs  up  more  fiendishness  than  a 
whole  regiment  of  thoroughbred  Cheyennes  could 

335 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

ever  think  of.  He's  led  in  every  killing  here  since 
March." 

"Not  Colonel  Bent's  son!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  he's  the  half-breed  devil  that  we'll  have 
to  fight,  and  here  he  comes  and  eats  with  us  and 
rides  away." 

"He  must  be  the  fellow  that  the  Mexican  told 
us  about  back  at  Burlingame,  Gail.  I  remember 
now  he  did  say  the  brute's  name  was  Bent,  but 
I  didn't  rope  him  up  with  our  Fort  Bent  chum. 
Gail  would  have  run  him  down  in  half  a  minute 
if  he  had  heard  the  name.  I  never  could  remember 
anything,"  Beverly  said,  in  disgust.  But  the  smile 
was  peeping  back  of  his  frown,  and  he  forgot 
the  boy  he  was  soon  to  have  cause  enough  to 
remember. 

"We  must  run  that  rascal  down  to-night,"  the 
Captain  declared,  as  he  hurried  away  to  consult 
with  the  other  officers. 

But  Charlie  Bent  was  not  run  down  that  night. 
Before  we  had  time  to  get  over  our  surprise  a 
scream  of  pain  rang  through  the  camp.  Another 
followed,  and  another,  and  when  an  hour  had 
passed  a  third  of  our  forces  was  writhing  in  the 
clutches  of  the  cholera. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  long  hours  of  that  night 
beside  the  Walnut,  nor  Beverly  Clarenden's  face 
as  he  bent  over  the  suffering  men.  For  all  of  us 
who  were  well  worked  mightily  to  save  our 
plague-stricken  comrades,  whose  couches  were  of 
prairie  grass  and  whose  hospital  roof  was  the  star- 
lit sky.  However  forgetful  Beverly  might  be  of 

336 


A    MAN'S    PART 

names  and  faces,  his  strong  hand  had  that  sooth- 
ing firmness  that  eased  the  agony  of  cramping 
limbs.  Dear  Bev!  He  comforted  the  sick,  and 
caught  the  dying  words,  and  straightened  the 
relaxed  bodies  of  the  dead,  and  smiled  next  day, 
and  forgot  that  he  had  done  it. 

At  last  the  night  of  horror  passed,  and  day 
came,  wan  and  hot  and  weary  out  of  the  east. 
But  five  of  our  comrades  would  see  no  earthly 
day  again;  and  three  dozen  strong  men  of  the 
day  before  lay  stretched  upon  the  ground,  pulse- 
less and  shrunken  and  purple,  with  wrinkled 
skin  and  wide,  unseeing  eyes. 

Before  the  sun  had  risen  our  dead,  coffined  only 
by  their  army  blankets,  lay  in  unmarked  graves. 
Our  helpless  living  were  placed  in  commissary 
wagons,  and  we  took  the  trail  slowly  and  pain- 
fully toward  the  Arkansas  River. 

If  Charley  Bent  had  gathered  up  his  band  to 
strike  that  night  there  would  have  been  a  different 
chapter  in  the  annals  of  the  plains. 

I  cannot  follow  with  my  pen  the  long  marches 
of  that  campaign,  and  there  was  no  honorable 
nor  glorious  warfare  in  it.  It  is  a  story  of  skir- 
mishes, not  of  battles;  of  attack  and  repulse;  of 
ambush  and  pursuit  and  retreat.  It  is  a  story  of 
long  days  under  burning  skies,  by  whose  fierce 
glare  our  brains  seemed  shriveling  up  and  the 
world  went  black  before  our  heat-bleared  eyes. 
A  story  of  hard  night-rides,  when  weary  bodies 
fought  with  watchful  minds  the  grim  struggle  that 
drowsiness  can  wage,  though  sleep,  we  knew, 

337 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

meant  death.  It  is  a  story  of  fevered  limbs  and 
bursting  pulse  in  hospitals  whose  walls  were  prairie 
distances.  A  story  of  hunger,  and  exhausted  ra- 
tions; of  choking  thirst,  with  only  alkali  water 
mocking  at  us.  And  never  could  the  story  all  be 
told.  There  is  no  rest  for  cavalrymen  in  the  field. 
We  did  not  suffer  heavy  loss,  but  here  and  there 
our  comrades  fell,  by  ones,  and  twos,  at  duty's 
post;  and  where  they  fell  they  lie,  in  wayside 
graves,  waiting  for  glorious  mention  until  the  last 
reveille  shall  sound  above  the  battlements  of 
heaven. 

And  I  was  one  among  these  vanguards  of  the 
plains,  making  the  old  Santa  Fe  Trail  safe  for  the 
feet  of  trade;  and  the  wide  Kansas  prairies  safe 
for  homes,  and  happiness,  and  hope,  and  power. 
I  lived  the  life,  and  toughened  in  its  grind.  But 
in  my  dreams  sometimes  my  other  life  returned 
to  me,  and  a  sweet  face,  with  a  cloud  of  golden 
hair,  and  dark  eyes  looking  into  mine,  came  like 
a  benediction  to  me.  Another  face  came  some- 
times now — black,  big,  and  glistening,  with  eyes 
of  strange,  far  vision  looking  at  me,  and  I  heard, 
over  and  over,  the  words  of  Esmond  Clarenden's 
cook: 

"If  you  get  into  trouble,  Mr.  Bev,  I'll  come,  hot 
streaks,  to  help  you." 

But  trouble  never  stuck  to  "Mr.  Bev,"  because 
he  failed  to  know  it  when  it  came. 

Mid-August  found  us  at  Fort  Hays  on  the 
Smoky  Hill,  beyond  whose  protecting  guns  the 
wilderness  ruled.  A  wilderness  checkered  by 

338 


A   MAN'S    PART 

faint  trails  of  lawless  feet,  a  wilderness  set  with 
bloody  claws  and  poison  stings  and  cruel  fangs, 
and  slow,  agonizing  death.  And  with  all  a  wil- 
derness of  weird,  fascinating  distances  and  danger, 
charm  and  beauty.  The  thrill  of  the  explorer  of 
new  lands  possessed  us  as  we  looked  far  into  the 
heart  of  it.  Here  in  these  August  days  the  Chey- 
enne and  Arapahoe  and  Kiowa  bands  were  riding 
trails  blood-stained  by  victims  dragged  from 
lonely  homesteads,  and  butchered,  here  and  there, 
to  make  an  Indian  holiday.  The  scenes  along  the 
valleys  of  the  Sappa  and  the  Beaver  and  the 
Prairie  Dog  creeks  were  far  too  brutal  and  revolt- 
ing to  belong  to  modern  life.  Against  these  our 
Eighteenth  Kansas,  with  a  small  body  of  United 
States  cavalry,  struck  northward  from  Fort  Hays. 
We  rested  through  the  long,  hot  days  and  marched 
by  night.  The  moon  was  growing  toward  the  full, 
and  in  its  clear,  white  splendor  the  prairies  lay 
revealed  for  miles  about  us.  Our  command  was 
small  and  meagerly  equipped,  and  we  were 
moving  on  to  meet  a  foe  of  overwhelming  num- 
bers. Men  took  strange  odds  with  Fate  upon  the 
plains. 

Beyond  the  open,  level  lands  lay  a  rugged 
region  hemming  in  the  valley  of  the  Prairie  Dog 
Creek.  Here  picturesque  cliffs  and  deep,  earth- 
walled  canons  split  the  hills,  affording  easy 
ambush  for  a  regiment  of  red  men.  And  here,  in 
a  triangle  of  a  few  miles  area,  a  new  Thermopylae, 
with  no  Leonidas  but  Kansas  plainsmen,  was 
staged  through  two  long  August  days  and  nights. 

339 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

One  hundred  and  fifty  of  us  against  fifteen  hun- 
dred fighting  braves. 

In  the  early  morning  of  a  long,  hot  August  day, 
we  came  to  an  open  plain  beyond  the  Prairie  Dog 
Creek.  Our  supply-wagons  and  pack-mules  were 
separated  from  us  somewhere  among  the  bluffs. 
We  had  had  no  food  since  the  night  before,  and 
our  canteens  were  empty — all  on  account  of  the 
blundering  mismanagement  of  the  United  States 
officer  who  cammanded  us.  I  was  only  a  private, 
and  a  private's  business  is  not  to  question,  but  to 
obey.  And  that  major  over  us,  cashiered  for 
cowardice  later,  was  not  a  Kansas  man.  Thank 
heaven  for  that ! 

A  score  of  us,  including  my  cousin  and  myself, 
under  a  sergeant,  and  with  good  Scout  Pliley,  were 
suddenly  ordered  back  among  the  hills. 

"Where  do  we  go,  and  why?"  Beverly  asked 
me  as  we  rode  along. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "But  Captain  Jen- 
ness  and  a  file  of  men  were  lost  out  here  somewhere 
last  night.  And  Indian  tracks  step  over  one  an- 
other all  around  here.  I  guess  we  are  out  to  find 
what's  lost,  maybe.  It  isn't  a  twenty  minutes' 
job,  I  know  that." 

"And  all  our  canteens  empty,  too !  Why  cut  off 
all  visible  means  of  support  in  a  time  like  this? 
Look  at  ^hese  bluffs  and  hiding-places,  will  you! 
A  handful  of  Indians  could  scoop  our  whole  body 
up  and  pitch  us  into  the  Prairie  Dog  Creek,  and 
not  be  missed  from  a  set  in  a  war-dance,"  Beverly 
insisted.  ' '  Keep  it  strictly  in  the  Clarenden  family, 

340 


A    MAN'S    PART 

Gail,  but  our  honorable  commander  is  a  fool  and 
a  coward,  if  he  is  a  United  States  major." 

"You  speak  as  one  expecting  a  promotion, 
Bev,"  I  suggested. 

"I'd  know  how  to  use  it  if  I  got  it,"  he  smiled 
brightly  at  me  as  we  quickened  our  pace  not  to 
fall  behind. 

Every  day  of  that  campaign  Beverly  grew 
dearer  to  me.  I  am  glad  our  lives  ran  on  to- 
gether for  so  many  years. 

The  canons  deepened  and  the  whole  region 
was  bewildering,  but  still  we  struggled  on,  lost 
men  searching  for  lost  men.  The  sun  blazed 
hotly,  and  the  soft  yellow  bluffs  of  bone-dry 
earth  reached  down  to  the  dry  beds  of  one-time 
streams. 

High  noon,  and  still  no  food,  no  water,  and  no 
lost  men  discovered.  We  had  pushed  out  to  a 
little  opening,  ridged  in  on  either  side  by  high, 
brown  bluffs,  when  a  whoop  came  from  the  head 
of  the  line. 

"Yonder  they  are!    Yonder  they  are!" 

Half  a  dozen  men,  led  by  Captain  Jenness,  were 
riding  swiftly  to  join  us  and  we  shouted  in  our 
joy.  For  some  among  us  that  was  the  last  joyous 
shout.  At  that  moment  a  yell  from  savage  throats 
filled  the  air,  and  the  thunder  of  hoofs  shook  the 
ground.  Over  the  west  ridge,  half  a  mile  away, 
five  hundred  Indians  came  swooping  like  a  hur- 
ricane down  upon  us.  And  we  numbered,  alto- 
gether, twenty-nine.  I  can  see  that  charge  to-day : 
the  blinding,  yellow  sky,  the  ridge  melting  into  a 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

cloud  of  tawny  dust,  the  surge  of  ponies  with  their 
riders  bending  low  above  them;  fronting  them, 
our  little  group  of  cavalrymen  formed  into  a  hollow 
square,  on  foot,  about  our  mounts;  the  Indians 
riding,  in  a  wide  circle  around  us,  with  blankets 
flapping,  and  streamer-decked  lances  waving  high. 
And  as  I  see,  I  hear  again  that  wild,  unearthly 
shriek  and  taunting  yell  and  fiendish  laughter. 
From  every  point  the  riflle-balls  poured  in  upon 
us,  while  out  of  buffalo  wallow  and  from  behind 
each  prairie-dog  hillock  a  surge  of  arrows  from 
unmounted  Indians  swept  up  against  us.  I  had 
been  on  battle-fields  before,  but  this  was  a  circle 
out  of  hell  set  'round  us  there.  And  every  man  of 
of  knew,  as  we  sent  back  ball  for  ball,  what  cap- 
ture here  would  mean  for  us  before  the  merciful 
hand  of  death  would  seal  our  eyes. 

Suddenly,  as  we  moved  forward,  the  frantic 
circle  halted  and  a  hundred  braves  came  dash- 
ing in  a  fierce  charge  upon  us.  Their  leader, 
mounted  on  a  great,  white  horse,  rode  daringly 
ahead,  calling  his  men  to  follow  him,  and  taunting 
us  with  cowardice.  He  spoke  good  English,  and 
his  voice  rang  clear  and  strong  above  the  din  of 
that  strange  struggle.  Straight  on  he  came,  with- 
out once  looking  back,  a  revolver  in  each  hand, 
firing  as  he  rode.  A  volley  from  our  carbines  made 
his  fellows  stagger,  then  waver,  break,  and  run. 
Not  so  the  rider  of  the  splendid  white  horse,  who 
dared  us  to  strike  him  down  as  he  dashed  full 
at  us. 

"Come  on,  you  coward  Clarenden  boys,  and  I'll 
342 


A    MAN'S    PART 

fight  you  both.  I've  waited  all  these  years  to  do 
it.  I  dare  you.  Oh,  I  dare  you!" 

It  was  Charlie  Bent. 

Nine  balls  from  Clarenden  carbines  flew  at  him. 
Beverly  and  I  were  listed  among  the  cleverest 
shots  in  Kansas,  but  not  one  ball  brought  harm 
to  the  daring  outlaw.  A  score  of  bullets  sung 
about  his  insolent  face,  but  his  seemed  a  charmed 
life.  Right  on  he  forged,  over  our  men,  and 
through  the  square  to  the  Indian's  circle  on  the 
other  side,  his  mocking  laughter  ringing  as  he 
rode.  A  bloody  scalp  hung  from  his  spear,  and, 
turning  'round  just  out  of  range  of  our  fire,  shak- 
ing his  trophy  high,  he  shouted  back : 

"We  got  all  of  the  balance  of  your  men.  We'll 
get  you  yet." 

The  sun  glared  fiercely  on  the  bare,  brown 
earth.  A  burning  thirst  began  to  parch  our  lips. 
We  had  had  no  food  nor  drink  for  more  than 
twenty  hours.  Our  horses,  wounded  with  many 
arrows,  were  harder  to  care  for  than  our  brave, 
stricken  men. 

Night  came  upon  the  canons  of  the  Prairie 
Dog,  and  with  the  darkness  the  firing  ceased. 
Somewhere,  not  far  away,  there  might  be  a 
wagon-train  with  food  for  us.  And  somewhere 
near  there  might  be  a  hundred  men  or  more  of 
our  command  trying  to  reach  us.  But  whether 
the  force  and  supplies  were  safe  or  the  wagons 
were  captured  and  all  our  comrades  killed,  as 
Charlie  Bent  had  said,  we  could  not  know.  We 
only  knew  that  we  had  no  food;  that  one  man, 
23  343 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

and  all  but  four  of  our  cavalry  horses  lay  dead 
out  in  the  valley;  that  two  men  in  our  midst 
were  slowly  dying,  and  a  dozen  others  suffering 
from  wounds  of  battle,  among  these  our  captain 
and  Scout  Pliley;  that  we  were  in  a  wild,  strange 
land,  with  Indians  perching,  vulture-like,  on  every 
hill-top,  waiting  for  dawn  to  come  to  seize  their 
starving  prey. 

We  heard  an  owl  hoot  here  and  there,  and 
farther  off  an  answering  hoot;  a  coyote's  bark,  a 
late  bird's  note,  another  coyote,  and  a  fainter 
hoot,  all  as  night  settled.  And  we  knew  that  owl 
and  coyote  and  twilight  song-bird  were  only  imi- 
tations— sentinel  signals  from  point  to  point,  where 
Indian  videttes  guarded  every  height,  watching 
the  trail  with  shadow-piercing  eyes. 

The  glossy  cottonwood  leaves,  in  the  faint 
night  breeze,  rippled  like  pattering  rain-drops  on 
dry  roofs  in  summertime,  and  the  thin,  willow 
boughs  swayed  gently  over  us.  The  full  moon 
swept  grandly  up  the  heavens,  pouring  a  flood  of 
softened  light  over  the  valley  of  the  Prairie  Dog, 
whose  steep  bluffs  were  guarded  by  a  host  of 
blood-lusting  savages,  and  whose  canons  locked 
in  a  handful  of  intrepid  men. 

If  we  could  only  slip  out,  undiscovered,  in  the 
dark  "we  might  find  our  command  somewhere  along 
the  creek.  It  was  a  perilous  thing  to  undertake, 
but  to  stay  there  was  more  perilous. 

"Say,  Gail,"  Beverly  whispered,  when  we  were 
in  motion,  "somebody  said  once,  'There  have 
been  no  great  nations  without  processions,'  but 

344 


A   MAN'S    PART 

this  is  the  darndest  procession  I  ever  saw  to  help 
to  make  a  nation  great.  Hold  on,  comrade.  There ! 
Rest  on  my  arm  a  bit.  It  makes  it  softer." 

The  last  words  to  a  wounded  soldier  for  whom 
Bev's  grip  eased  the  ride. 

It  was  a  strange  procession,  and  in  that  tragic 
gloom  the  boy's  light-hearted  words  were  balm 
to  me. 

Silently  and  slowly  we  moved  forward.  The 
underbrush  was  thick  on  either  side  of  the  narrow, 
stony  way  that  wound  between  sheer  cliffs.  We 
had  torn  up  our  blankets  and  shirts  to  muffle  the 
horses'  feet,  that  no  sound  of  hoofs,  striking  upon 
the  rocky  path,  might  reach  the  ears  of  the  Chey- 
enne and  his  allies  crouching  watchfully  above 
us.  At  the  head  marched  Captain  Jenness  and 
Scout  Pliley,  each  with  his  carbine  for  a  crutch 
and  leaning  on  each  other  for  support.  Followed 
five  soldiers  as  front  guard  through  the  defile. 
And  then  four  horses,  led  by  careful  hands,  bear- 
ing nine  suffering,  silent  men  upon  their  backs. 
Two  of  the  horses  carried  three,  and  one  bore  two, 
and  the  last  horse,  one — a  dying  boy,  whispering 
into  my  ear  a  message  for  his  mother,  as  I  held  his 
hand.  Behind  us  came  the  sergeants  with  the 
remainder,  for  rear-guard.  And  so  we  passed,  mile 
after  mile,  winding  in  and  out,  to  find  some  shelter- 
ing spot  where,  sinking  in  exhaustion,  we  might 
sleep. 

The  midnight  winds  grew  chill,  and  the  tense 
strain  of  that  slow  march  was  maddening,  but 
not  a  groan  came  from  the  wounded  men.  The 

345 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

vanguards  of  the  plains  knew  how  to  take  perilous 
trails  and  hold  their  peace. 

When  the  sun  rose  on  the  second  day  the  hills 
about  us  swarmed  with  savages,  whose  demoniac 
yells  rent  the  air.  Leonidas  had  his  back  against 
a  rock  at  old  Thermopylae,  but  our  Kansas  plains- 
men fought  in  a  ring  of  fire. 

At  day-dawn,  our  brave  scout,  Pliley,  slipped 
away,  and,  after  long  hours  among  the  barren 
hills,  he  found  the  main  command. 

Men  never  gave  up  hope  in  the  plains  war- 
fare, but  each  of  us  had  saved  one  bullet  for 
himself,  if  we  must  lose  this  game.  The  time 
for  that  last  bullet  had  almost  come  when  the 
sight  of  cavalrymen  on  a  distant  ridge  told  us 
that  our  scout  was  on  its  way  to  us  again.  It 
took  a  hero's  heart  to  thread  unseen  the  dan- 
gerous trails  and  find  our  comrades  with  the 
cavalry  major  and  bring  back  aid,  but  Pliley  did 
it  for  us — a  man's  part.  May  the  sod  rest  lightly 
where  he  sleeps  to-day. 

Meantime,  on  the  day  before,  the  main  force 
of  our  cavalry,  who  had  given  us  up  for  lost,  had 
had  their  own  long,  fearful  struggle.  In  the  early 
morning,  Lieutenant  Stahl,  scouting  forward  in 
an  open  plain,  rushed  back  to  give  warning  of 
Indians  everywhere.  And  they  were  everywhere — 
a  thousand  strong  against  a  feeble  hundred  caught 
in  their  midst.  They  rode  like  centaurs,  and  their 
aim  was  deadly  true  as  they  poured  down,  a  mur- 
derous avalanche,  from  every  hillslope.  Their 
ponies'  tails,  sweeping  the  ground,  lengthened  by 

346 


A    MAN'S    PART 

long  horse-hair  braids,  with  sticks  thrust  through 
at  intervals  by  way  of  ornament;  their  waving 
blankets,  and  streamered  lances  held  aloft;  the 
savage  roar  from  ten  hundred  throats;  the  mad 
impetus  of  their  furious  charge  through  clouds 
of  dust  and  rifle  smoke — all  made  the  valley  of 
the  Prairie  Dog  seem  but  a  seething  hell  bursting 
with  fiendins  shouts,  shot  through  with  quivering 
arrows,  shattered  by  bullets,  rocked  with  the 
thunderous  beat  of  horses'  hoofs,  trampling  it 
into  one  great  maelstrom  of  blood  and  dirt. 

All  day,  with  neither  food  nor  water,  amid 
bewildering  bluffs  and  gorges,  alive  with  savage 
warriors,  the  cavalrymen  had  striven  desperately. 
Night  fell,  and  in  the  clear  moon-light  they  forced 
their  way  across  the  Prairie  Dog,  and  neither  man 
nor  horse  dared  to  stop  to  drink  because  an 
instant's  pause  meant  death. 

And  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first 
day.  And  the  second  was  like  unto  it,  albeit  we 
were  no  longer  a  triangle,  made  up  of  wagon-train 
here  and  main  command  there,  and  our  twenty- 
nine — less  two  lost  ones — under  Captain  Jenness, 
at  a  third  point.  Before  noon,  our  force  was  all 
united  and  we  joined  hands  for  the  finish. 

Beverly  and  I  rode  side  by  side  all  day.  Every- 
where around  us  the  half-breed,  Charlie  Bent, 
dashed  boldly  on  his  big,  white  horse  calling  us 
cowardly  dogs  and  taunting  us  with  lack  of 
marksmanship. 

"I'm  getting  tired  of  that  fellow,  Gail.  I'll 
pick  his  horse  out  from  under  him  pretty  soon, 

347 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

see  if  I  don't."  My  cousin  called  to  me  as  Bent's 
insolent  cry  burst  forth : 

"Come  out,  and  let  me  show  you  how  to 
shoot." 

Beverly  leaped  out  toward  the  Indian  horde 
surrounding  Bent.  He  raised  his  carbine,  and 
with  steady  aim,  fired  far  across  the  field  of  battle, 
the  cleanest  shot  I  ever  saw.  Years  ago  my  cousin 
had  urged  Uncle  Esmond  to  let  him  practise  shoot- 
ing on  horse-back.  He  was  a  master  of  the  art 
now.  Charlie  Bent's  splendid  white  steed  fell 
headlong,  hurling  its  rider  to  the  ground  and 
dragging  him,  face  downward,  in  the  dirt. 

I  cannot  paint  that  day's  deeds  with  my  pen, 
nor  ever  artist  lived  whose  brush  could  reproduce 
it.  If  we  should  lose  here,  it  meant  the  turning 
of  the  clock  from  morning  back  to  midnight  on 
the  Kansas  plains. 

Between  this  and  the  safety  of  the  prairies  stood 
fewer  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  men,  against  a 
thousand  warriors,  led  by  cunning  half-breeds 
skilled  in  the  white  man's  language  and  the  red 
man's  fiendishness. 

If  we  should  lose —  We  did  not  go  out  there  to 
lose.  When  each  man  does  a  man's  part  there  is 
no  failure  possible  at  last. 

As  the  sun  sank  toward  late  afternoon,  the 
savage  force  massed  for  its  great,  crushing  blow 
that  should  annihilate  us.  The  strong  center, 
made  up  of  the  flower  of  every  tribe  engaged,  was 
on  the  crest  of  a  long,  westward-reaching  slope, 
a  splendid  company  of  barbaric  warriors — strong, 

348 


A    MAN'S    PART 

eager,  vengeful,  doggedly  determined  to  finish  now 
the  struggle  with  the  power  they  hated. 

The  air  was  very  clear,  and  in  its  crystal  dis- 
tances we  could  see  every  movement  and  hear 
each  command. 

The  valley  rang  with  the  taunts  and  jeers  and 
threats  and  mocking  laughter  of  our  foes,  daring 
us  to  come  out  and  meet  them  face  to  face,  like 
men.  And  we  went  out  and  met  them  face  to 
face,  like  men. 

A  little  force  of  soldiery  fighting,  not  for  our- 
selves, but  for  the  hearthstones  of  a  nobler 
people,  our  cavalry  swung  up  that  long,  western 
slope  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire,  into  the  very 
heart  of  Cheyenne  strength,  enforced  by  all  the 
iron  of  the  allied  tribes.  I  marvel  at  it  now,  when, 
in  solid  phalanx,  our  foes  might  easily  have  mowed 
us  down  like  a  thin  line  of  standing  grain ;  for  their 
numbers  seemed  unending,  while  flight  on  flight 
of  arrows  and  fierce  sheets  of  rifle-fire  swept  our 
ranks  as  we  rode  on  to  death  or  victory.  But 
each  man's  face  among  us  there  was  bright  with 
courage,  and  with  our  steady  force  unchecked  we 
swept  right  on  to  the  very  crest  of  the  high  slope, 
scattering  the  enemy,  at  last,  like  wind-blown 
autumn  leaves,  until  upon  our  guidons  victory 
rested  and  the  long  day  was  won. 


XX 


GONE    OUT 

I  wander  alone  at  dead  of  night, 
But  ever  before  me  I  see  a  light, 
In  darkest  hours  more  clear,  more  bright ; 
And  the  hope  that  I  bear  fails  never. 

FREDRICK  RUCKERT. 

THE  waters  of  the  Smoky  Hill  flowed  yellow, 
flecked  with  foam,  beside  our  camp,  where,  in 
a  little  grove  of  cottonwood  trees,  we  rested  from 
a  long  day's  march.  The  heat  of  a  late  Kansas 
summer  day  was  fanned  away  at  twilight  by  the 
cool  prairie  breeze.  There  was  an  appealing  some- 
thing in  the  air  that  evening  hour  that  made  me 
homesick.  So  I  went  down  beside  the  river  to 
fight  out  my  daily  battle  and  let  the  wide  spaces 
of  the  landscape  soothe  me,  and  all  the  opal  tints 
of  sunset  skies  and  the  soft  radiance  of  a  prairie 
twilight  bring  me  their  inspiration. 

Each  day  my  heart-longing  for  the  girl  I  must 
not  love  grew  stronger.  I  wondered,  as  I  sat  here 
to-night,  what  trail  would  open  for  me  when  Bev- 
erly and  Eloise  should  meet  again,  as  lovers  must 
meet  some  time.  We  had  not  once  spoken  her 
name  between  us,  Bev  and  I,  in  all  the  days  and 
nights  since  we  had  been  in  service  on  the  plains. 


GONE    OUT 

As  I  sat  lonely,  musing  vaguely  of  a  score  of 
things  that  all  ran  back  to  one  fair  face,  Beverly 
dropped  down  beside  me.  His  face  was  grave 
and  his  eyes  had  a  gentle,  pleading  look,  some- 
thing strange  and  different  from  the  man  whose 
moods  I  knew. 

"I'm  homesick,  Gail."  He  smiled  as  he  spoke, 
and  all  the  boy  of  all  the  years  was  in  that  smile. 

"So  am  I,  Bev.  It  must  be  in  the  water  here," 
I  replied,  lightly. 

But  neither  one  misunderstood  the  other. 

"I'd  like  to  see  Little  Lees  to-night.  Wouldn't 
you?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

The  question  startled  me.  Maybe  my  cousin 
wanted  to  confide  in  me  here.  I  would  not  be 
selfish  with  him. 

"Yes,  I  always  like  to  see  her.  Why  to-night, 
though?"  I  asked,  encouragingly. 

Beverly  looked  steadily  into  my  face. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Gail.  I  haven't 
dared  to  speak  before,  but  something  tells  me  I 
should  speak  to-night,"  he  said  slowly. 

I  looked  away  along  the  winding  valley  of  the 
Smoky  Hill.  I  must  hear  it  some  time.  Why  be 
a  coward  now? 

"Say  on,  I'm  always  ready  to  hear  anything 
from  you,  Beverly." 

I  tried  to  speak  firmly,  and  I  hoped  my  voice 
did  not  seem  faltering  to  him.  He  sat  silent  a  long 
while.  Then  he  rose  and  straightened  to  his  full 
height — a  splendid  form  of  strength  and  whole- 
someness  and  grace. 

35i 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"I'll  tell  you  some  time  soon,  but  not  to-night. 
Honor  is  something  with  me  yet." 

And  so  he  left  me. 

I  dreamed  of  him  that  night  with  Eloise.  And 
all  of  us  were  glad.  I  wakened  suddenly.  Beverly 
was  standing  near  me.  He  turned  and  walked 
away,  his  upright  form  and  gait,  even  in  the 
faint  light,  individually  Bev's  own.  I  saw  him 
lie  down  and  draw  his  blanket  about  him,  then 
sit  up  a  moment,  then  nestle  down  again.  Some- 
thing went  wrong  with  sleep  and  me  for  a  long 
time,  and  once  I  called  out,  softly : 

"Bev,  can't  you  sleep?" 

"Oh,  shut  up!  Not  if  you  fidget  about  me,"  he 
replied,  with  the  old  happy-go-lucky  toss  of  the 
head  and  careless  tone. 

It  was  dim  dawn  when  I  wakened.  My  cousin 
was  sleeping  calmly  just  a  few  feet  away.  An 
irresistible  longing  to  speak  to  him  overcame  me 
and  I  slipped  across  and  gently  kicked  the  slum- 
bering form.  Two  cavalry  blankets  rolled  apart. 
A  note  pinned  to  the  edge  of  one  caught  my  eye. 
I  stooped  to  read: 

DEAR  GAIL, — Don't  hate  me.  I'm  sick  of  army  life.  They 
will  call  me  a  coward  and  if  they  get  me  they  will  shoot  me 
for  a  deserter.  I  have  disgraced  the  Clarenden  name.  You'll 
never  see  me  again.  Good-by,  old  boy. 

BEV. 

Deserter ! 

The  yells  of  all  the  tribes  in  the  battle  on  the 
Prairie  Dog  Creek  shrieked  not  so  fiercely  in  my 

352 


GONE    OUT 

ears  as  that  word  rang  now.    And  all  the  valley  of 
the  Smoky  Hill  echoed  and  re-echoed  it. 

Deserter ! 

My  Beverly — who  never  told  a  lie,  nor  feared  a 
danger,  nor  ever,  except  in  self-defense.,  hurt  a 
creature  God  had  made.  I  could  bury  Bev,  or 
stand  beside  him  on  his  wedding-day.  But 
Beverly  disgraced!  O,  God  of  mercy  toward  all 
cowards,  pity  him ! 

I  sat  down  beside  the  blankets  I  had  kicked 
apart  and  looked  back  over  my  cousin's  life.  It 
offered  me  no  help.  I  thought  of  Eloise — and  his 
longing  to  see  her  on  the  night  before;  of  his 
struggle  to  tell  me  something.  I  knew  now  what 
that  something  was.  Poor  boy ! 

He  was  not  a  boy,  he  was  a  man — strong,  fear- 
less, happy-hearted.  How  could  the  plains  make 
cowards  out  of  such  as  he  ?  They  had  made  a  man 
of  Jondo,  who  had  all  excuse  to  play  the  coward. 
The  mystery  of  the  human  mind  is  a  riddle  past 
my  reading  —  and  I  had  always  thought  of  Bev- 
erly's as  an  open  book.  The  only  one  to  whom  I 
could  turn  now  was  not  Eloise,  nor  my  uncle,  nor 
Mat  nor  Rex,  but  Jondo,  John  Doe,  the  nameless 
man,  with  whom  Esmond  Clarenden  had  walked 
all  these  years  and  for  whose  sake  he  had  rescued 
Eloise  St.  Vrain.  They  had  "toted  together,"  as 
Aunty  Boone  had  said.  Oh,  Aunty  Boone  with 
dull  eyes  of  prophecy!  I  could  hear  her  soft 
voice  saying: 

"If  you  get  into  trouble,  Mr.  Bev,  I  come,  hot 
streaks,  to  help  you." 

353 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

She  could  not  come  "hot  streaks"  now,  for 
Beverly  had  deserted.  But  there  was  Jondo. 

I  wrote  at  once  to  him,  inclosing  the  crumpled 
note,  and  then,  as  one  who  walks  with  neither 
sight  nor  feeling  any  more,  I  rode  the  plains  and 
did  a  man's  part  in  that  Eighteenth  Cavalry  cam- 
paign of  '67.  The  days  went  slowly  by,  bringing 
the  long,  bright  autumn  beauty  to  the  plains 
and  turning  all  the  elms  to  gold  along  the  creek  at 
Burlingame.  Time  took  away  the  sharp  edge 
from  our  grief  and  shame,  and  left  the  dull  pain 
that  wears  deeper  and  deeper,  unnoticed  by  us; 
and  all  of  us  who  had  loved  Beverly  lived  on  and 
were  cheerful  for  one  another's  sake. 

When  Jondo — as  only  Jondo  could — bore  the 
news  of  my  letter  to  Esmond  Clarenden,  he  made 
no  reply,  but  sat  like  an  image  of  stone.  Rex 
Krane  broke  down  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart 
would  break.  But  Mat,  calm,  poised,  and  always 
merciful,  merely  said: 

"We  must  wait  awhile." 

It  was  many  days  before  she  broke  the  news  to 
Eloise  St.  Vrain,  who  only  smiled  and  said : 

"Gail  is  mistaken.    Beverly  couldn't  desert." 

It  was  when  the  word  came  to  Aunty  Boone 
that  the  storm  broke.  They  told  me  afterward 
that  her  face  was  terrible  to  see,  and  that  her  eyes 
grew  dull  and  narrow.  She  went  out  to  the  bluff's 
edge  and  sat  staring  up  the  valley  of  the  Kaw 
as  if  to  see  into  the  hidden  record  of  the  com- 
ing years. 

One  October  day,  when  the  Kranes  and  Eloise 
354 


GONE   OUT 

sat  with  my  uncle  and  Jondo  in  the  soft  afternoon 
air,  looking  out  at  the  beauty  of  the  Missouri 
bluffs,  Aunty  Boone  loomed  up  before  them  sud- 
denly. 

"I  got  somebody's  fortune,  just  come  clear 
before  me,"  she  declared,  in  her  soft  voice.  ' '  Lem- 
me  see  you'  hand,  Little  Lees!" 

Eloise  put  her  shapely  white  hand  upon  the  big, 
black  paw. 

Aunty  Boone  patted  it  gently,  the  first  and  last 
caress  she  ever  gave  to  any  of  us. 

"You'  goin'  to  get  a  letter  from  a  dark  man. 
You'  goin'  to  take  a  long  journey.  And  somebody 
goin'  with  you.  An'  the  one  tellin'  this  is  goin' 
away,  jus'  one  more  voyage  to  desset  sands  again, 
and  see  Africy  and  her  own  kingdom.  Whoo-ee!" 

Never  before,  in  all  the  years  that  we  had 
known  her,  had  she  expressed  a  wish  for  her 
early  home  across  the  seas.  Her  voice  trailed 
off  weirdly,  and  she  gazed  at  the  Kaw  Valley 
for  a  long  moment.  Then  she  said,  in  a  low 
tone  that  thrilled  her  listeners  with  its  vibrant 
power : 

"Bev  ain't  no  deserter.  He's  gone  out!  Jus' 
gone  out .  Whoo-ee ! ' ' 

She  disappeared  around  the  corner  of  the  house 
and  stood  long  in  the  little  side  porch  where  Bev- 
erly had  kissed  Little  Blue  Flower  one  night  in 
the  "Moon  of  the  Peach-Blossom,"  and  Eloise  had 
found  them  there,  and  I  had  unwittingly  heard 
what  was  said. 

"Is  there  no  variation  in  palmistry?"  Rex 
355 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

Krane  asked.  "I  never  knew  a  gypsy  in  all  my 
life  who  read  a  different  set  of  prophecies.  It's 
always  the  dark  man — I'm  light  (darn  the  luck) — 
and  a  journey  and  a  letter.  But  I  thought  maybe 
an  African  seer,  a  sort  of  Voodo,  hoodoo,  bugaboo, 
would  have  it  a  light  man  and  a  legacy  and  com- 
pany coming,  instead  of  you  taking  a  journey, 
Eloise." 

Eloise  smiled. 

"You  musn't  envy  me  my  good  fortune,  Rex," 
she  declared.  "Aunty  Boone  says  she  is  going 
back  to  Africa,  too.  You'll  need  a  new  cook, 
Uncle  Esmond.  Let  me  apply  for  the  place  right 
now." 

My  uncle  smiled  affectionately  on  her. 

' '  I  could  give  you  a  trial,  as  I  gave  her.  I  remem- 
ber I  told  her  if  she  could  cook  good  meals  I'd 
keep  her;  if  not,  she'd  leave.  Do  you  want  to 
take  the  risk?" 

"That's  where  you'll  get  your  journey  of  the 
prophecy,  Eloise,"  Jondo  suggested. 

"Well,  you  leave  out  the  best  part  of  it  all," 
Mat  broke  in.  "She  added  that  Beverly  isn't  a 
deserter,  he's  just  'gone  out.'  Why  don't  you 
believe  it  all,  serious  or  frivolous?" 

A  shadow  lifted  from  the  faces  there  as  a  glimpse 
of  hope  came  slowly  in. 

"And  as  to  letters,  Eloise,"  Uncle  Esmond  said, 
' '  I  must  beg  your  pardon.  I  have  one  here  for  you 
that  I  had  forgotten.  It  came  this  morning." 

"See  if  it  isn't  from  a  dark  man,  inviting  you 
to  take  a  journey,"  Rex  suggested. 

356 


GONE   OUT 

"It  must  be,  it's  from  Santa  Fe,"  Eloise  said, 
opening  the  letter  eagerly. 

Aunty  Boone  had  come  back  again  and  was 
standing  by  the  corner  of  the  veranda,  half 
hidden  by  vines,  watching  Eloise  with  steady 
eyes.  The  girl's  face  grew  pale,  then  deadly 
white,  and  her  big,  dark  eyes  were  opened  wide 
as  she  dropped  the  letter  and  looked  at  the  faces 
about  her. 

"It  is  from  Father  Josef,"  she  gasped.  "He 
writes  of  Little  Blue  Flower  somewhere  in  Hopi- 
land.  He  asks  me  to  go  to  Santa  Fe  at  once  for 
her  sake.  And  it  says,  too — "  The  voice  faltered 
and  Eloise  turned  to  Esmond  Clarenden.  "It 
says  that  Beverly  is  there  somewhere  and  he 
wants  you.  Read  it,  Uncle  Esmond." 

As  Eloise  rose  and  laid  the  letter  in  my  uncle's 
hand,  Aunty  Boone,  hidden  by  the  vines,  muttered 
in  her  soft,  strange  tone: 

"He's  jus' gone  out.  Thank  Jupiter!  He's  jus' 
gone  out.  I'm  goin',  hot  streaks,  to  help  him,  too. 
Then  I  go  to  my  own  desset  where  I'm  honin'  to 
to  be,  an'  stay  there  till  the  Judgment  Day. 
Whoo-ee!" 

In  the  early  morning  of  a  rare  October  day  upon 
the  plains  I  sat  on  my  cavalry  horse  beside  Fort 
Hays,  waiting  for  one  last  word  from  my  superior 
officer,  Colonel  Moore.  He  was  my  uncle's  friend, 
and  he  had  been  kind  to  the  Clarenden  boys,  as 
military  kindness  runs. 

' '  You  are  honorably  discharged , "  he  said .  '  'Take 
357 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

these  letters  to  Fort  Dodge.  You  will  meet  your 
friends  there,  and  have  some  safeguard  from  there 
on,  by  order  of  General  Sheridan.  God  bless  you, 
Gail.  You  have  ridden  well.  I  wish  you  a  safe 
journey,  and  I  hope  you'll  find  your  cousin  soon. 
He  was  a  splendid  boy  until  this  happened.  He 
may  be  cleared  some  day." 

"He  is  splendid  still  to  me  in  spite  of  every- 
thing," I  replied. 

"Yes,  yes,"  my  colonel  responded.  "Never  a 
Clarenden  disgraced  the  name  before.  That  is 
why  General  Sheridan  is  granting  you  a  squad  to 
help  you.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  good  name. 
Good-by." 

"Good-by.  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times,"  I 
said,  saluting  him. 

"And  I  thank  you.  A  chain,  you  know,  is  as 
strong  as  its  weakest  link.  A  cavalry  troop  is  as 
able  as  its  soldiers  make  it." 

He  turned  his  horse  about,  and  I  rode  off  alone 
across  the  lonely  plains  a  hundred  miles  away 
toward  old  Fort  Dodge,  beside  the  Arkansas 
River.  Jondo  and  Rex  were  to  meet  me  there  for 
one  more  trip  on  the  long  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

Late  September  rains  had  blessed  the  valley  of 
the  Arkansas.  The  level  land  about  Fort  Dodge 
showed  vividly  green  against  the  yellow  sand-hills 
across  the  river,  and  the  brown,  barren  bluffs 
westward,  where  a  little  city  would  one  day  rise 
in  pretty  picturesqueness.  The  scene  was  like 
the  Garden  of  Eden  to  my  eyes  when  I  broke 

358 


GONE    OUT 

through  the  rough  ridges  to  the  north  on  the 
last  lap  of  my  long  ride  thither  and  hurried  down 
to  the  fort.  I  grant  I  did  not  appear  like  one  who 
had  a  right  to  enter  Eden,  for  I  was  as  brown  as  a 
Malayan.  Nearly  four  months  of  hard  riding, 
sleeping  on  the  ground,  with  a  sky-cover,  eating 
buffalo  meat,  and  drinking  the  dregs  of  slow- 
drying  pools,  had  made  a  plainsman  of  me,  of 
the  breed  that  long  since  disappeared.  Golf- 
sticks  and  automobile  steering-wheels  are  held 
by  hands  to-day  no  less  courageous  than  those 
that  swung  the  carbine  into  place,  and  flung  aside 
the  cavalry  bridle-rein  in  a  wild  onslaught  in  our 
epic  day.  Each  age  grows  men,  flanked  by  the 
coward  and  the  reckless  daredevil. 

Rex  Krane  was  first  to  recognize  me  when  I 
reached  the  fort. 

' '  Oh,  we  are  all  here  but  Mat :  Clarenden,  Jondo, 
Aunty  Boone,  and  Little  Lees;  and  a  squad  of 
half  a  dozen  cavalry  men  are  ready  to  go  with 
us."  Rex  drawled  in  his  old  Yankee  fashion, 
hiding  an  aching  heart  underneath  his  jovial 
greeting. 

"All  of  us!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes.    Here  they  all  come!"  Rex  retorted. 

They  all  came,  but  I  saw  only  one,  veiling  the 
joy  in  my  eyes  as  best  I  could.  For  with  the  face 
of  Eloise  before  me,  I  knew  the  hardest  battle  of 
my  life  was  calling  me  to  colors.  I  had  forgotten 
how  womanly  she  was,  or  else  her  summer  by  the 
blessed  prairies  that  lap  up  to  the  edge  of  the 
quiet  town  of  Burlingame  had  brought  her  peace 
24  359 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

and  helped  her  to  put  away  sad  memories  of  her 
mother. 

Behind  her — a  black  background  for  her  fair, 
golden  head — was  Aunty  Boone. 

"Our  girl  was  called  to  Santa  Fe,  and  Daniel 
here  goes  with  her.  I  couldn't  stay  behind,  of 
course,"  my  uncle  said.  "The  Comanches  are 
making  trouble  all  along  the  Cimarron,  and  we 
will  go  up  the  Arkansas  by  the  old  trail  route.  It 
is  farther,  but  the  soldiers  say  much  safer  right 
now,  and  maybe  just  as  quick  for  us.  There  is  no 
load  of  freight  to  hinder  us — two  wagons  and  our 
mounts.  Besides,  the  cavalrymen  have  some 
matters  to  look  after  near  the  mountains,  or  we 
might  not  have  had  their  protection  granted  us," 

The  beauty  of  that  early  autumn  on  the  plains 
and  mountains  lingers  in  my  memory  still,  though 
half  a  century  has  passed  since  that  journey  on 
the  old,  long  trail  to  Santa  Fe. 

At  the  closing  of  an  Indian  summer  day  we 
pitched  our  camp  outside  the  broken  walls  of  old 
Fort  Bent.  Every  day  found  me  near  Eloise, 
although  the  same  barrier  was  between  us  that 
had  risen  up  the  day  she  left  me  in  the  ruined 
chapel  by  the  San  Christobal  River.  Every  day 
I  longed  to  tell  her  what  Beverly  had  said  to  me 
the  night  he — went  out.  It  was  due  her  that  she 
should  know  how  tenderly  he  had  thought  of  her. 

The  night  was  irresistible,  soft  and  balmy  for 
the  time  of  year,  as  that  night  had  been  long  ago 
when  we  children  were  marooned  inside  this 
stronghold.  A  thin,  growing  moon  hung  in  the 

360 


GONE    OUT 

crystal  heavens  and  all  the  shadowy  places  were 
softened  with  gray  tones.  Jondo  and  Uncle  Es- 
mond and  Rex  Krane  were  talking  together. 
Aunty  Boone  was  clearing  up  after  the  evening 
meal.  The  soldiers  were  about  their  tasks  or 
pastimes.  Only  Eloise  and  I  were  left  beside  the 
camp-fire. 

"Let's  go  and  find  the  place  where  we  spent  our 
last  evening  here,  Little  Lees,"  I  said,  determined 
to-night  to  tell  her  of  Beverly. 

"And  just  as  many  other  places  as  we  can 
remember,"  Eloise  replied. 

We  clambered  over  heaps  of  fallen  stone  in  the 
wide  doorway,  and  stood  inside  the  half-roofless 
ruin  that  had  been  a  stronghold  at  the  wilderness 
crossroads. 

The  outer  walls  were  broken  here  and  there. 
The  wearing  elements  were  slowly  separating  the 
inner  walls  and  sagging  roofs.  Heaps  of  debris 
lay  scattered  about.  Over  the  caving  well  the 
well-sweep  stuck  awry,  marking  a  place  of  danger. 
Everywhere  was  desolation  and  slow  destruction. 

We  sat  down  on  some  fallen  timbers  in  the  old 
court  and  looked  about  us. 

"It  was  a  pity  that  Colonel  Bent  should  have 
blown  up  this  splendid  fortress,  and  all  because 
the  Government  wouldn't  pay  him  his  price  for 
it,"  I  declared. 

' '  Destroyed  what  he  had  built  so  carefully,  and 
what  was  so  useful,"  Eloise  commented.  "Some- 
times we  wreck  our  lives  in  the  same  way." 

I  have  said  the  twilight  seemed  to  fit  her  best, 
361 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

although  at  all  times  she  was  fair.  But  to-night 
she  was  a  picture  in  her  traveling  dress  of  golden 
brown,  with  soft,  white  folds  about  her  throat. 
I  wondered  if  she  thought  of  Beverly  as  she  spoke. 
It  hurt  me  so  to  be  harsh  with  his  memory. 

"Yes,  Charlie  Bent  blew  up  all  that  the  Colonel 
built  into  him,  of  education  and  the  ways  of  cul- 
tured folks — a  leader  of  a  Dog  Indian  band,  he  is 
a  piece  of  manhood  wrecked.  And  by  the  way," 
I  went  on,  "Beverly  shot  his  beautiful  white 
horse  on  the  Prairie  Dog  Creek.  You  should  have 
seen  that  shot.  It  was  the  cleanest  piece  of  long- 
range  marksmanship  I  ever  saw.  He  hated  Bev 
for  that." 

"Maybe  he  gloats  over  our  lost  Beverly  to-day. 
He  is  only  'gone  out'  to  me,"  Eloise  said  softly. 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  Little  Lees.  Bev- 
erly and  I  never  spoke  of  you — you  can  guess 
why — until  that  last  night  beside  the  Smoky  Hill. 
He  wanted  to  tell  me  something  that  night." 

"And  did  he?"  Eloise  asked,  eagerly. 

"No.  He  said  honor  was  something  with  him 
still.  I  thought  he  meant  to  tell  me  of  himself 
and  you.  Forgive  me.  I  do  not  want  any  con- 
fidences not  freely  given.  But  now  I  know  it  was 
the  struggle  in  which  he  went  down  that  night 
that  he  wanted  to  tell  me  about.  He  said  first, 
'I'm  homesick.  I'd  like  to  see  Little  Lees.'  And 
his  eyes  were  full  of  sympathy  as  he  looked  at 
me." 

"Did  he  say  anything  more?"  Eloise 's  voice 
was  almost  a  whisper. 

362 


GONE    OUT 

"That  was  all.  I  thought  that  night  I  should 
hunt  a  lonely  trail — when  he  went  home  to  claim 
— happiness.  But  now  I  feel  that  I  could  live 
beside  him  always — to  have  him  safe  with  us 
again." 

As  I  turned  to  look  at  Eloise  something  was  in 
her  big,  dark  eyes — something  that  disappeared 
at  once.  I  caught  only  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  it, 
and  I  could  not  understand  why  a  thrill  of  some- 
thing near  to  happiness  should  sweep  through  me. 
It  was  but  the  shadow  of  what  might  have  been 
for  me  and  was  not. 

"Do  you  recall  our  prophecies  here  that  night 
when  we  were  children?"  Eloise  asked. 

"Yes,  every  one.  Mat  wanted  a  home,  Bev  to 
fight  the  Indians,  and  you  wanted  me  to  keep 
Marcos  Ramero  in  his  place.  I  tried  to  do  it,"  I 
replied. 

And  both  of  us  recalled,  but  did  not  speak  of, 
the  warm,  childish  kiss  of  Little  Lees  upon  my 
lips,  and  how  we  gripped  hands  in  the  shadows 
when  the  moon  went  cold  and  grey.  Life  was  so 
simple  then. 

"It  may  be,  if  our  problems  and  our  tragedies 
crowd  into  our  younger  years,  they  clear  the  way 
for  all  the  bright,  unclouded  years  to  follow," 
Eloise  said,  as  we  rose  to  go  back  to  the  camp-fire. 

"I  hope  they  will  leave  us  strong  to  meet  the 
bright,  unclouded  years,"  I  answered  her. 

On  the  next  day  the  cavalrymen  left  us  for  a 
time,  and  we  went  on  alone  southward  toward  our 
journey's  end. 

363 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Autumn  on  the  mountain  slopes,  and  in  the 
mesa-girdled  valleys  of  New  Mexico  hung  rainbow- 
tinted  lights  by  day,  with  star-beam  pointed  paths 
trailing  across  the  blue  night-sky.  And  all  the 
rugged  beauty  of  a  picturesque  land,  basking  in 
lazy  warmth,  out-breathing  sweet,  pure  air,  made 
the  old  trail  to  Santa  Fe  an  enchanting  highway 
to  me,  despite  the  burden  of  a  grief  that  weighed 
me  down.  For  I  could  not  shut  from  my  mind  the 
pitiful  call  of  Little  Blue  Flower  that  had  come  to 
Eloise,  nor  all  the  uncertainty  surrounding  my 
cousin  somewhere  in  the  Southwest  wanting  us. 

The  little  city  of  adobe  walls  seemed  not  to  have 
changed  a  hair's  turn  in  the  six  years  since  I  had 
seen  it  last.  Out  beyond  the  sandy  arroyo  again 
Father  Josef  waited  for  us.  The  same  strong  face 
and  dark  eyes,  full  of  fire,  the  same  erect  form 
and  manly  bearing  were  his.  Except  for  a  few 
streaks  of  gray  in  his  close-cropped  hair  the  years 
had  wrought  no  change  in  him,  save  that  his 
countenance  betokened  the  greater  benediction  of 
a  godly  life  upon  it.  As  we  rode  slowly  to  the  door 
of  San  Miguel  I  fell  behind.  The  years  since  that 
day  when  the  saucy  little  girl  had  called  me  a  big, 
brown,  bob-cat  here  came  back  upon  my  mind, 
and,  though  my  hope  had  vanished,  still  I  loved 
the  old  church. 

Before  we  had  passed  the  doorway  Eloise  left 
her  wagon  and  stood  beside  my  horse. 

"Gail,  let  us  stop  here  with  Father  Josef  while 
the  others  go  down  to  Felix  Narveo's.  It  always 
seems  so  peaceful  here." 

364 


GONE    OUT 

"You  are  always  welcome  here,  my  children," 
Father  Josef  said,  graciously,  as  I  leaped  from  my 
horse  and  stuck  its  lariat  pin  down  beside  the 
doorway. 

Inside  there  were  the  same  soft  lights  from  the 
high  windows,  the  same  rare  old  paintings  about 
the  altar,  the  same  seat  beside  the  door. 

The  priest  spoke  to  us  in  low  tones  befitting 
sanctuary  stillness.  "You  have  come  on  a  long 
journey,  but  it  is  one  of  mercy.  I  only  pray  you 
do  not  come  too  late,"  he  said. 

"Tell  us  about  it,  Father,"  Eloise  urged.  "The 
men  will  get  the  story  from  Felix  Narveo,  but  Gail 
and  I  seem  to  belong  up  here."  She  smiled  up  at 
me  with  the  words. 

I  could  have  almost  hoped  anew  just  then,  but 
for  the  thought  of  Beverly. 

"Let  us  pray  first,"  the  holy  man  replied. 

Beverly  and  I  had  been  confirmed  in  the  Epis- 
copalian faith  once  long  ago,  but  the  plains  were 
hard  on  the  religion  of  a  high-church  man.  And 
yet,  all  sacred  forms  are  beautiful  to  me,  and  I 
always  knew  what  reverence  means. 

"You  may  not  know,"  Father  Josef  said,  "that 
I  have  Indian  blood  in  my  veins — a  Hopi  strain 
from  some  French  ancestors.  Po-a-be,  our  Little 
Blue  Flower,  is  my  heathen  cousin,  descended 
from  the  same  chief's  daughter.  The  Hopi's  faith 
is  a  part  of  him,  like  his  hand  or  eye,  and  I  have 
never  gained  much  with  the  tribe  save  through 
blood-ties.  But  because  of  that  I  have  their 
confidence." 

365 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

"You  have  all  men's  confidence,  Father  Josef," 
I  said,  warmly. 

"Thank  you,  my  son,"  the  priest  replied.  "When 
Santan,  the  Apache,  came  back  from  a  long  raid 
eastward,  he  told  Little  Blue  Flower  that  Beverly 
had  spared  his  life  beside  a  poisoned  spring  in  the 
Cimarron  valley,  urging  him  to  go  back  and  marry 
her;  life  had  other  interests  now  to  white  men 
who  must  forget  all  about  Indian  girls,  he  declared, 
and  with  Apache  adroitness  he  pressed  his  claims 
upon  her.  But  Santan  had  slain  Sister  Anita 
beside  the  San  Christobal  Arroyo.  A  murderer  is 
abhorrent  to  a  Hopi,  who  never  takes  life,  save  in 
self-defense  or  in  legitimate  warfare — if  warfare 
ever  is  legitimate,"  he  added,  gravely. 

"My  little  cousin  was  heart-broken,  for  all  the 
years  since  her  rescue  at  Pawnee  Rock  she  had 
cherished  one  face  in  memory;  and  maybe  Beverly 
in  his  happy,  careless  way  had  given  her  cause  to 
do  so." 

"We  understand,  I  think,"  Eloise  said,  turning 
inquiringly  to  me. 

I  nodded,  and  Father  Josef  went  on.  " She  knew 
her  love  was  foolish,  but  few  of  us  are  always  wise 
in  love.  So  Santan's  suit  seemed  promising  for  a 
time.  But  the  Hopi  type  ran  true  in  her,  and  she 
put  off  the  Apache  year  after  year.  It  is  a  strange 
case  in  Indian  romance,  but  romance  everywhere 
is  strange  enough.  The  Apache  type  also  ran  true 
to  dogged  purpose.  Besides  being  an  Apache,  San- 
tan has  some  Ramero  blood  in  his  veins,  to  be 
accounted  for  in  the  persistence  of  an  evil  will. 

366 


GONE   OUT 

He  was  as  determined  to  win  Poa-be  as  she  that 
he  should  fail.  And  he  was  cunning  in  his 
schemes." 

Father  Josef  paused  and  looked  at  Eloise. 

"To  make  the  story  short,"  he  began  again, 
"Santan  could  not  make  the  Hopi  woman  hate 
Beverly,  although  she  knew  that  her  love  was 
hopeless,  as  it  should  be.  Pardon  me,  daugh- 
ter," Father  Josef  said,  gently.  "She  heard  you 
two  talking  in  a  little  porch  one  night  at  the  Clar- 
enden  home,  and  she  has  believed  ever  since  that 
you  are  lovers.  That  is  why  she  sent  for  you  to 
come  to  help  her  now." 

"I  saw  Beverly  give  Little  Blue  Flower  a  broth- 
erly kiss  that  night,  and  I  told  him,  frankly,  how 
it  grieved  me,  because  I  had  known  at  St.  Ann's 
about  her  love  for  him.  I  had  urged  her  to  go 
with  me  to  the  Clarendens' ,  hoping  that  when  she 
saw  Beverly  again  she  would  quit  dreaming  of 
him." 

I  looked  away,  at  the  paintings  and  the  crucifix 
above  the  altar,  and  the  long  shafts  of  light  on 
gray  adobe  walls,  wondering,  vaguely,  what  the 
next  act  of  this  drama  might  reveal. 

"Beverly  was  always  lovable,"  Father  Josef 
said.  "But  now  the  message  comes  that  he  is  out 
in  the  heart  of  Hopi-land,  and  because  Little  Blue 
Flower  is  protecting  him  her  people  may  turn 
against  her.  For  Beverly's  sake,  and  for  her  sake, 
too,  my  daughter,  we  must  start  at  once  to  find 
her  and  maybe  save  his  life.  She  wants  you.  It 
is  the  call  of  sisterhood.  Sister  Gloria  and  I  will 

367 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

go  with  you.  I  have  much  influence  with  my  Hopi 
people." 

"Will  they  put  Beverly  to  death?"  I  asked. 

' '  I  cannot  tell,  but — see  how  long  the  arm  of  hate 
can  be,  my  son — Santan,  the  Apache,  has  been 
informed  of  Beverly's  coming  by  Marcos  Ramero, 
gambler  and  debauchee.  And  Marcos  got  it  in 
some  way  from  Charlie  Bent,  a  Cheyenne  half- 
breed,  son  of  old  Colonel  Bent,  a  fine  old  gentle- 
man. Maybe  you  knew  young  Bent?" 

"Yes,  he  holds  a  grudge  against  the  Clarenden 
name  because  we  made  him  play  square  with 
us  at  the  old  fort  when  we  were  children,"  I 
told  the  priest.  "He  yelled  defiance  at  us  in 
the  battle  on  the  Prairie  Dog  Creek  last  August. 
Bev  shot  his  horse  from  under  him  just  to 
humble  the  insolent  dog!  Beverly  never  was  a 
coward,"  I  insisted,  all  my  affection  for  my  cousin 
overwhelming  me. 

"This  makes  it  clearer,"  Father  Josef  said. 
"Through  Bent  to  Ramero  and  Ramero  to  San- 
tan,  the  word  went,  somehow.  The  Apache  has 
gathered  up  a  band  of  the  worst  of  his  breed  and 
they  are  moving  against  the  Hopis  to  get  Beverly. 
You  and  Jondo  and  Clarenden  and  Krane  will 
join  the  little  squad  of  cavalry  you  left  up  in 
the  mountains,  and  turn  the  Apache  back,  and 
all  of  us  must  start  at  once,  or  we  may  be  too 
late.  May  heaven  bless  our  hands  and  make 
them  strong." 

We  bowed  in  reverence  for  a  moment.  When  we 
hurried  from  the  dim  church  into  the  warm  Oc- 

368 


GONE    OUT 

tober  sunlight,  Aunty  Boone  sat  on  the  door-step 
beside  my  horse. 

"  'He's  jus'  gone  out,'  I  told  'em  so,  back  there 
on  the  Missouri  River.  He's  gone  out  an'  I'm 
goin',  hot  streaks,  to  find  him,  Little  Lees. 
Whoo-ee!" 


XXI 

IN   THE   SHADOW   OF   THE   INFINITE 

And  though  there's  never  a  grave  to  tell, 
Nor  a  cross  to  mark  his  fall, 
Thank  God!  we  know  that  he  "batted  well" 
In  the  last  great  Game  of  all. 

— SERVICE. 

WE  left  Santa  Fe  within  an  hour,  and  struck 
out  toward  the  unknown  land  where  Beverly 
Clarenden,  in  the  midst  of  uncertain  friends,  was 
being  hunted  down  by  an  Apache  band.  As  our 
little  company  passed  out  on  the  trail  toward 
Agua  Fria,  I  recalled  the  day  when  we  had  gone 
with  Rex  Krane  to  this  little  village  beside  the 
Santa  Fe  River.  Eloise  and  Father  Josef  and 
Santan  and  Little  Blue  Flower  were  all  there  that 
day;  and  Jondo,  although  we  did  not  know  it 
then.  Rex  Krane  had  told  Beverly,  going  out, 
that  an  Indian  never  forgets.  In  all  the  years 
Santan  had  not  forgotten. 

To-day  we  covered  the  miles  rapidly.  Jondo 
and  Father  Josef  rode  ahead,  with  Esmond  Clar- 
enden and  Felix  Narveo  following  them;  then 
came  Eloise  St.  Vrain  with  Sister  Gloria;  behind 
them,  Aunty  Boone,  with  Rex  and  myself  bringing 

370 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

up  the  rear.  Three  pack-mules  bearing  our  equip- 
ment went  tramping  after  us  with  bobbing  ears 
and  sturdy  gait. 

I  looked  down  the  line  of  our  little  company 
ahead.  The  four  men  in  the  lead  were  college 
chums  once,  and  all  of  them  had  loved  the  mother  of 
the  girl  behind  them.  I  have  said  the  girl  looked 
best  by  twilight.  I  had  not  seen  her  in  a  coarse- 
gray  riding-dress  when  I  said  that.  I  had  seen 
her  when  she  needed  protection  from  her  enemies. 
I  had  not  seen  her  until  to-day,  going  out  to 
meet  hardship  fearlessly,  for  the  sake  of  one 
who  wanted  her — only  an  Indian  maiden,  but 
a  faithful  friend.  In  the  plainest  face  self- 
forgetf ulness  puts  a  beauty  all  its  own.  That 
beauty  shone  resplendent  now  in  the  beautiful 
face  of  Mary  Marchland's  daughter. 

The  world  can  change  wonderfully  in  sixty 
minutes.  As  we  rode  out  toward  the  Rio  Grande, 
the  yellow  sands,  the  gray  gramma  grass,  the 
purple  sage,  the  tall  green  cliffs,  and,  high  above, 
the  gleaming  snow-crowned  peaks,  took  on  a 
beauty  never  worn  for  me  before.  Why  should  a 
hope  spring  up  within  me  that  would  die  as  other 
hopes  had  died?  But  back  of  all  my  thought  was 
the  longing  to  help  Beverly,  and  a  faith  in  Aunty 
Boone's  weird,  prophetic  grip  on  things  unseen.  He 
had  just  "gone  out"  to  her — why  not  to  all  of  us? 
I  could  not  understand  Little  Blue  Flower's  part  in 
this  tragedy,  so  I  let  it  alone. 

A  day  out  from  Santa  Fe  we  were  joined  by  the 
little  squad  of  cavalrymen  with  whom  we  had 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

parted  company  back  at  the  Fort  Bent  camping- 
place.  With  these  we  had  little  cause  to  dread 
personal  danger.  The  Apache  band  was  a  small, 
vicious  gang  that  could  do  much  harm  to  the 
Hopis,  but  it  seemed  nothing  for  us  to  fear. 

Our  care  was  to  reach  Beverly  before  the  Hopis 
should  rise  up  against  Little  Blue  Flower,  or  the 
band  led  by  Santan  should  fall  upon  them.  Father 
Josef  had  sent  a  runner  on  to  tell  them  of  our 
coming  and  to  warn  them  of  the  Apache  raid.  But 
runners  sometimes  come  to  grief. 

It  is  easy  enough  now  to  sleep  most  of  the  hours 
away  across  the  arid  lands  that  lie  between  the 
Rockies  and  the  Coast  Range  mountains,  where 
the  great  "through  limiteds,"  swinging  down  their 
long  trail  of  steel,  sweep  farther  in  one  day  than 
we  crept  in  two  long,  weary  weeks  in  that  October 
fifty  years  ago.  Only  Father  Josef's  unerring 
Indian,  accuracy  brought  us  through. 

We  crawled  up  rugged  mountain  trails  and 
skirted  the  rims  of  dizzy  chasms;  we  wound 
through  canons,  with  only  narrow  streams  for 
paths,  between  sheer  walls  of  rock ;  we  pitched  our 
camp  at  the  bases  of  great,  red  sand  stone  mesas, 
barren  of  life ;  we  followed  long,  yellow  ways  over 
stretches  of  unending  plain;  we  wandered  in  the 
painted-desert  lands,  where  all  the  colors  God  has 
made  bewilder  with  their  beauty,  in  the  barest, 
dreariest,  most  unlovely  bit  of  unfinished  world 
that  our  great  continent  holds;  the  lands  for- 
gotten, maybe,  when,  in  Creation's  busy  week, 
the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the  sixth  day, 

372 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

and  the  Great  Builder  looked  on  His  work  and 
called  it  good. 

We  found  the  Hopi  trails,  but  not  the  Hopi 
clan  that  we  were  seeking.  We  found  Apache 
trails  behind  them,  but  only  dimly  marked,  as  if 
they  blew  one  moccasin  track  full  of  sand  before 
they  made  another. 

The  October  days  were  dreams  of  loveliness, 
and  dawn  and  sunset  on  the  desert  were  inde- 
scribably beautiful.  But  the  nights  were  bitterly 
cold.  Eloise  and  Sister  Gloria  were  native  to  the 
Southwest  and  they  knew  how  to  dress  warmly 
for  it.  Aunty  Boone  had  never  felt  such  chilling 
night  breezes,  but  not  one  word  of  complaint 
came  from  her  lips  in  all  that  journey. 

One  night  we  gathered  into  camp  beneath  the 
shelter  of  a  little  butte.  We  had  overtaken  Father 
Josef's  Indian  runner  an  hour  before.  He  had  not 
found  the  Hopis  yet,  and  so  we  held  a  council. 

"The  Hopi  is  ahead  of  us  northwest,"  the 
Indian  declared. 

"Is  the  Apache  following?"  Jondo  asked. 

The  runner  nodded.  "They  have  been  pur- 
sued, but  they  have  slipped  away;  the  Apache 
goes  north,  they  turn  north-west.  They  take  the 
dry  lands  and  the  pine  forests  beyond;  their  last 
chance.  If  they  hold  out  till  the  Apache  leaves, 
they  will  return  safely.  You  follow  them,  wait 
for  them,  or  go  back  without  them.  It  is  your 
choice." 

We  turned  toward  the  three  women,  one  in  the 
bloom  of  her  young  womanhood,  one  with  the 

373 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

patient  endurance  of  the  nun,  one  black  and 
strong  and  always  unafraid. 

"I  do  not  want  to  leave  Little  Blue  Flower  in 
her  hour  of  peril,"  Eloise  said. 

"I  can  go  where  I  am  needed,"  Sister  Gloria 
declared. 

"This  is  my  land,  I  never  know  Africa  was 
right  out  here.  I  thought  they  was  oceans  on 
both  sides  of  it.  I  go  where  Bev's  gone  out  an 
then  I  come  here  and  stay.  Whoo-ee!" 

We  smiled  at  her  mistaken  dream  of  her  far 
African  home,  and,  cheering  one  another  on,  when 
morning  came  we  moved  northwest. 

Jondo  rode  beside  me  all  that  day,  and  we  talked 
of  many  things. 

"Gail,"  he  said,  "Aunty  Boone  is  right.  This 
is  her  Africa.  I  don't  believe  she  will  ever  leave 
it." 

"She  can't  stay  here,  Jondo,"  I  replied. 

"She  will,  though.  You  will  see.  Did  she  ever 
fail  to  have  her  way?" 

"No.  She  is  a  type  of  her  own,  never  to  be 
reproduced,  but  like  a  great  dog  in  her  faithful 
loyalty,"  I  declared. 

"And  shrewder  than  most  men,"  Jondo  went 
on.  "She  supplied  the  lost  link  with  Santan  for 
me  last  night.  Years  ago,  when  Little  Blue  Flower 
brought  me  a  message  from  Father  Josef  on  the 
morning  that  we  took  Eloise  from  Santa  Fe,  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Apache  across  the  plaza  and 
read  the  message — 'trust  the  bearer  anywhere' — to 
mean  that  boy.  Aunty  Boone  had  just  peered  out 

374 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

and  scared  the  little  girl  away.  She  told  me  all 
about  it  last  night,  when  she  was  bewailing  Bever- 
ly's hard  fate.  How  small  a  thing  can  open  the 
road  to  a  big  tragedy.  I  trusted  that  whelp  till 
that  day  at  San  Christobal." 

"I  hope  we  will  finish  this  soon,"  I  said.  "I 
don't  understand  Beverly  at  all  and  I  marvel  at 
Little  Blue  Flower's  love  for  him.  Don't  you?" 

Jondo  looked  up  with  a  pathos  in  his  dark-blue 
eyes. 

"Don't  hurry,  Gail.  The  trails  all  end  some- 
where soon.  Life  is  a  stranger  thing  from  day  to 
day,  but  the  one  thing  that  no  man  will  ever  fully 
understand  is  a  woman's  love  for  man.  There  is 
only  one  thing  higher,  and  that  is  mother-love." 

"The  kind  that  you  and  Uncle  Esmond  have," 
I  said. 

"Oh,  I  am  only  a  man,  but  Clarenden  has  a 
woman's  heart,  as  you  and  Beverly  and  my  sister's 
child  all  know." 

"Your  sister's  child?"  I  gasped. 

"Yes.  When  her  parents  went  with  yellow 
fever,  too,  I  could  not  adopt  Mat — you  know 
why.  Clarenden  did  it  for  me.  She  has  always 
known  that  I  am  her  uncle,  but  Mat  was  always  a 
self-contained  child." 

I  loved  Mat  more  than  ever  from  that  hour. 

The  next  day  our  trail  ran  into  pine  forests, 
where  tall,  shapely  trees  point  skyward.  Not  a 
dense  woodland,  but  a  seemingly  endless  one. 
Snows  lay  in  the  darker  places,  and  here  and  there 
streams  trickled  out  into  the  sunlight,  whose 
K  375 


VANGUARDS    OF    THE    PLAINS 

only  sources  were  these  melting  snows.  It  was  a 
land  of  silence  and  loneliness — a  land  forgotten  or 
unknown  to  record.  The  Hopi  trail  was  stronger 
here  and  we  followed  it  eagerly,  but  night  overtook 
us  early  in  the  forest. 

That  evening  we  gathered  about  a  huge  fire  of 
pine  boughs  beneath  a  low  stone  ridge  covered 
with  evergreen  trees  that  sheltered  us  warmly 
from  the  sharp  west  winds.  We  heard  the  cries 
of  night-roving  beasts,  and  in  the  darkness,  now 
and  then,  a  pair  of  gleaming  eyes,  seen  for  an 
instant,  and  then  the  rush  of  feet,  told  us  that 
some  wild  creature  had  looked  for  the  first  time 
on  fire. 

"To-morrow  night  will  see  our  journey's  end," 
Jondo  declared.  "The  Hopi  can't  be  far  away, 
and  I'm  sure  they  are  safe  yet,  and  we  shall  reach 
them  before  the  Apache  does." 

The  Indian  runner's  face  did  not  change  its 
blankness,  but  I  felt  that  he  doubted  Jondo's 
judgment.  That  night  he  slipped  away  and  we 
never  saw  him  again. 

We  were  all  hopeful  that  night,  and  hopeful  the 
next  morning  when  we  broke  camp  early.  A  trail 
we  had  not  seen  the  night  before  ran  up  the  low 
ridge  to  the  west  of  us.  Eloise  and  I  followed  it 
up  a  little  way,  riding  abreast.  The  ridge  really 
was  a  narrow,  rocky  tableland,  and  beyond  it 
was  another  higher  slope,  up  which  the  same  trail 
ran.  The  trees  were  growing  smaller  and  the  sky 
flowed  broad  and  blue  above  their  tops.  The 
ground  was  only  rock,  with  a  thin  veneer  of  soil 

376 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

here  and  there.  Gnarled,  stunted  cedars  and  gray, 
twisted  cypress  clung  for  a  roothold  to  these  bar- 
ren ledges.  The  morning  breeze  swept,  sharp  and 
invigorating,  out  of  a  broad  open  space  beyond 
the  edge  of  this  rocky  woodland  height.  Eloise 
and  I  pushed  on  a  little  farther,  leaving  the  others 
still  on  the  narrow  shelf  above  our  camping-place. 

Suddenly,  as  we  rode  out  of  the  closer  timber  to 
where  the  scattered  growths  were  hardly  higher 
than  our  heads,  the  first  heaven  and  the  first  earth 
seemed  to  pass  away — not  in  irreverence  I  write 
it — and  we  stood  face  to  face  with  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth — where,  in  the  Grand  Canon  of 
the  Colorado  River,  the  sublimity  of  the  Almighty 
Builder's  beauty  and  omnipotence  was  voiced  in 
one  stupendous  Word,  wrought  in  enduring  color 
in  everlasting  stone.  Cleaving  its  way  westward 
to  some  far-off  sea,  a  wide  abyss,  a  dozen  miles 
across  from  lip  to  lip,  yawned  down  to  the  very 
vitals  of  the  earth.  We  stood  upon  the  rim  of  it 
— a  sheer  cliff  that  dropped  a  thousand  feet  of 
solid  limestone,  in  one  plummet  line,  to  other  cliffs 
below,  that  dropped  again  through  furlongs  of 
black  gneiss,  red  sandstone,  and  gray  granite. 

Beyond  this  mighty  chasm  great  forest  trees 
were,  to  our  eyes,  only  as  weeds  along  its  rim. 
Between  that  rim  and  ours  we  could  look  down 
upon  high  mountain  buttes  and  sloping  red 
tablelands,  and  dizzy  gorges  with  pinnacled  walls 
and  towers  and  domes — vast  forms  no  pen  will 
ever  picture — not  hurled  in  wild  confusion  by  titan 
fury,  but  symmetrical  and  purposeful  and  calm. 

377 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

Through  slowly  crawling  millions  of  patiently 
wearing  years,  while  stars  grew  old  and  perished 
from  the  firmament,  with  cloud,  and  frost,  and 
wind,  and  water,  and  sharp  cutting  sands,  these 
strata  of  the  old  earth's  crust  were  chiseled  into 
gigantic  outlines,  and  all  the  worn-down,  crumbled 
atoms  of  debris  were  swept  through  long,  tor- 
tuous leagues  of  distance  toward  the  sea  by  a 
mad  river  swirling  through  the  lowest  depths.  A 
mile  straight  down,  as  the  crow  never  flies  here,  it 
rushes,  but  to  us  the  river  was  a  mere  creek,  seen 
only  where  the  lower  gorges  open  to  the  channel. 

In  the  early  light  of  that  October  morning  the 
weird,  vast  shapes  that  filled  the  abyss  were 
bathed  in  a  bewildering  opulence  of  color.  Pale 
gold  along  the  farther  rim,  with  pink  and  amber, 
blue  and  gray,  and  heliotrope  and  rose — all  blend- 
ing softly,  tone  on  tone.  Deeper,  the  heart  of 
every  rift  and  chasm  that  flows  into  the  one  stu- 
pendous mother-rift  was  full  of  purple  shadows. 
Not  the  thin  lavender  of  the  upper  world  where 
we  must  live,  but  tensely,  richly  regal,  beyond 
words  to  paint;  with  silvery  mists  above,  soft, 
filmy  veils  that  draped  the  jutting  rocks  and 
rounded  each  harsh  edge,  melting  pink  to  rose  and 
gray  to  violet.  Eternal  silence  brooded  over  all 
this  symbol,  wrought  in  visible  form,  of  His  Almigh- 
tiness,  to  whom  a  thousand  years  are  as  a  day, 
and  in  the  hollow  of  whose  hand  He  holds  the 
universe.  Measureless,  motionless,  voiceless,  it 
seemed  as  if  all  the  canons  of  all  the  moun- 
tains of  our  great  contienent  might  have  given  to 

378 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

it  here  their  awful  depth  and  height  and  rugged 
strength;  their  picturesqueness,  color,  graceful 
outlines,  dizzy  steeps  and  awe-inspiring  lengths 
and  breadths.  And  fusing  all  these  into  itself, 
height  on  height,  and  breadth  on  breadth,  en- 
trancing charm  on  charm,  with  all  the  hues  that 
the  Great  Alchemist  can  throw  from  His  vast 
prism,  it  seemed  to  say: 

'"Twas  only  in  a  vision  that  St.  John  saw  the 
four-square  city  whose  twelve  gates  are  each  a 
single  pearl!  whose  walls  are  builded  on  founda- 
tion stones  of  jasper,  sapphire,  and  chalcedony, 
emerald  and  topaz,  chrysolite  and  amethyst; 
whose  streets  are  of  pure  gold,  like  unto  clear 
glass;  whose  light  is  ever  like  unto  a  stone  most 
precious. 

"To  you  who  may  not  dream  the  vision  beau- 
tiful, the  Mighty  Maker  of  all  things  sublime  has 
given  me  a  token  here  in  finite  stone  and  earthly 
coloring  of  that  undreamed  sublimity  of  all  things 
omnipotent." 

My  companion  and  I  sat  on  our  horses  speech- 
less, gazing  down  at  this  overwhelming  marvel 
below  us.  We  forgot  ourselves,  each  other,  our 
companions  of  the  journey,  its  purpose,  Beverly, 
and  his  enemy  Santan,  the  desert,  the  brown 
plains,  green  prairies,  rivers,  mountains,  the  earth 
itself,  as  we  stood  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Infinite. 

At  last  we  turned  and  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  for  one  long  moment.  In  its  space  we  read 
the  old,  old  story  through,  and  a  great,  upleaping 

379 


VANGUARDS   OF   THE    PLAINS 

joy  illumined  our  faces.  God,  who  had  let  us 
know  each  other,  had  let  us  stand  by  this  to  feel 
the  barrier  of  misunderstanding  fall  away. 

A  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  rocky  slope 
below  us,  a  weird  Indian  call,  and  a  great  shout 
from  our  calverymen  drew  us  to  earth  again.  The 
Hopis  were  coming.  Father  Josef  knew  the 
signal.  Our  Indian  runner  had  found  them  in 
the  night  and  sent  them  toward  us.  We  dashed 
into  the  forest,  keeping  close  together;  and  here, 
a  mile  away,  under  green  pines,  surrounded  by  a 
little  group  of  a  desert  Hopi  clan,  was  Beverly 
Clarenden — big,  strong,  unhurt  and  joyful.  And 
Little  Blue  Flower. 

The  years  since  that  far  night  when  I  had  seen 
two  maidens  in  Grecian  robes  beside  the  Flat 
Rock  in  the  "Moon  of  the  Peach  Blossom,"  had 
left  no  trace  on  Eloise  St.  Vrain,  save  to  imprint 
the  graces  of  womanliness  on  her  girlish  face.  But 
the  picturesque  Indian  maiden  of  that  night  looked 
aged  and  sorrowful  in  the  pine  forest  of  her  native 
land,  bent,  as  she  was,  with  the  dull  existence  of 
her  own  people ;  she,  who  had  known  and  loved  a 
different  form  of  life.  Only  the  big,  luminous 
eyes  held  their  old  charm. 

We  came  together  in  a  little  open  space  with 
pine  -  trees  all  about  us.  The  minutes  went 
swiftly  then  —  and  I  must  hurry  to  what  came 
hurrying  on,  for  much  of  it  is  lost  in  mist  and 
wonder. 

In  the  moment  of  glad  reunion  Aunty  Boone 
^80 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

suddenly  gave  a  whoop  the  like  of  which  I  had 
never  heard  before,  and,  dashing  wildly  toward 
Eloise  and  Sister  Gloria,  she  drove  them  in  a  fierce 
charge  straight  back  into  the  shelter  of  the  pine- 
trees. 

At  the  same  time  a  sudden  rain  of  bullets,  like 
a  swift  hail-storm,  and  a  yell — the  Apache  cry  of 
vengeance — filled  the  air.  Long  afterward  we 
learned  that  our  Indian  runner  had  met  this 
band  and  tried  to  turn  it  back — and  failed.  He 
would  have  saved  us  if  he  could. 

It  was  over  soon — that  encounter  in  the  forest 
where  each  tree  was  a  shield.  The  cavalrymen 
and  maybe,  too,  we  who  had  been  plainsmen, 
knew  how  to  drive  back  a  villianous  handful  of 
Apaches.  In  any  other  moment  since  we  had 
ridden  out  of  Sante  Fe  we  would  have  laughed  at 
such  a  struggle.  They  took  us  in  the  most  un- 
guarded instant  of  that  fortnight's  journey. 

The  Hopis  fled  wildly  out  of  sight.  Here  and 
there,  from  the  defeated,  scattered  band,  an 
Apache  warrior  sprang  back  and  lost  himself 
quickly  in  the  shadows.  But  Santan,  plunging 
into  our  very  midst,  seized  Little  Blue  Flower 
in  his  iron  grip,  and  the  bullet  from  a  cavalry 
carbine,  meant  for  him,  struck  her. 

He  laughed  and  threw  her  back  and,  whirling, 
dashed — into  the  arms  of  Aunty  Boone — and 
stopped. 

We  carried  our  wounded  tenderly  up  the  steep 
wooded  slope  and  out  into  the  sweet  sunlight  of 
its  crest,  where  we  laid  them  down  beside  that 

381 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

wondrous  rift  with  its  shimmering  mist  and  velvet 
shadows,  and  colorings  of  splendor,  folded  all  in 
the  magnificence  of  its  immensity  and  its  eternal 
silence. 

We  knew  that  Jondo's  wound  was  mortal,  and 
Father  Josef  and  Eloise  and  Rex  Krane  sat  beside 
him,  as  the  brave  eyes  looked  out  across  the 
sublimity  of  earthly  beauty  toward  the  far  land 
no  eye  hath  seen,  facing,  unafraid,  the  outward- 
leading  trail. 

But  Beverly  was  in  the  prime  of  young  man- 
hood, and  we  felt  sure  of  him,  as  Esmond  Claren- 
den  and  Sister  Gloria  and  I  ministered  to  his 
wants. 

"It's  no  use,  Gail."  My  cousin  lifted  a  plead- 
ing face  to  mine  a  moment,  as  on  that  day,  years 
ago  on  the  parade-ground  at  Fort  Leavenworth. 
Then  the  bright  smile  came  back  to  stay. 

"Why,  Bev,  you  have  a  life  before  you,  and 
you  aren't  the  only  Eighteenth  Kansas  man  who 
deserted.  We  can  pull  you  through  somehow — 
and  people  will  forget.  Even  General  Sheridan 
was  willing  to  send  a  squad  with  us,  on  the  possi- 
bility of  a  mistake  somewhere." 

"Deserted!"  Beverly's  voice  was  too  strong 
for  a  dying  man's.  "Uncle  Esmond,  Jondo,  Eloise 
— all  of  you — Gail  calls  me  a  deserter.  Me !  Knock 
him  over  that  precipice,  won't  some  of  you?" 

We  listened  eagerly  as  he  went  on : 

"Why,  don't  you  know  that  Charlie  Bent  and 
his  renegade  dogs  crawled  into  camp  like  snakes 
and  carried  me  out  by  force.  They  had  a  time  of 

382 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

it,  too,  but  never  mind.  Bent  told  me  he  left  a 
note  for  you.  I  supposed  he  would  say  I  was 
dead.  And  when  Gail  stirred,  half  awake,  he 
went  pacing  around  the  camp,  looking  so  near 
like  me  I  thought  it  was  myself  and  I  was  Charlie 
Bent.  I  was  roped  and  gagged  then,  but  I  could 
see.  Deserter!  I'm  glad  I  got  that  white  horse  of 
his  on  the  Prairie  Dog  Creek,  anyhow." 

Beverly's  face  paled  suddenly  and  he  lay  still 
a  little  while. 

"I'd  better  hurry."  The  smile  was  winsome. 
' '  They  didn't  give  me  a  ghost  of  a  chance  to  escape, 
but  they  didn't  harm  a  hair.  They  kept  me 
for  a  meaner  purpose,  and,  well,  I  was  landed, 
finally,  at  Santan's  door-step  in  the  Apache- 
land.  Santan  offered  to  let  me  go  free  if  I'd 
persuade  Little  Blue  Flower — dead  down  there — 
to  marry  him.  He  had  her  come  to  me  on  pre- 
tense of  my  sending  for  her.  She  hated  the  brute, 
and  she  was  a  woman,  if  she  was  an  Indian.  I 
told  him  I'd  see  him  in  hell  first,  and  I  told  her 
never  to  give  in.  Poor  girl!  It  was  a  cruel  test, 
but  Santan  knew  how  to  be  cruel.  He  said  he'd 
fix  me,  and  I  guess  he  has  done  it." 

"Oh  no,  Bev.  You  are  good  for  a  century,"  I 
declared,  affectionately,  holding  his  head  on  my 
knee. 

' '  Little  Blue  Flower  managed,  somehow,  to  fool 
the  Apache  dog,  and  we  escaped  and  got  away  to 
her  people,"  Beverly  continued,  speaking  more 
slowly,  "then  she  sent  word  to  Father  Josef.  But 
the  Hopi  folks  were  scared  about  the  Apaches 

383 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

coming  against  them  on  account  of  harboring  me, 
like  a  Jonah,  among  'em;  and  they  were  going  to 
make  it  hard  for  Little  Blue  Flower.  I  don't 
know  heathen  ethics  in  such  things,  but  a  hand- 
ful of  us  had  to  cut  for  it.  I'm  no  deserter, 
though.  Don't  forget  that.  As  soon  as  I  could 
be  sure  the  little  Indian  woman's  life  was  safe  I 
was  going  to  get  away  and  come  home.  I  could 
not  leave  her  to  be  sacrificed  after  she  had  saved 
me  from  Santan's  scalping-knife." 

Beverly  paused  and  looked  at  us.  His  voice 
seemed  weaker  when  he  spoke  again: 

"I  thought,  sometimes,  that  even  if  I  wasn't  to 
blame  for  it,  I  ought  to  take  Little  Blue  Flower 
with  me  when  I  got  away.  Dear  little  girl!  she 
gave  me  one  smile  and  whispered  'Lolomi'  before 
she  went  just  now.  I  told  her  long  ago  I  was  just 
everybody's  friend.  I  never  meant  to  spoil  any- 
body's life,  and  I  can  meet  her  down  at  the  end 
of  the  trail  and  never  fear." 

Just  then  a  half -wailing,  half-purring  cry  came 
from  Aunty  Boone,  who  was  standing  beside  a 
gnarled  cypress-tree. 

"I  knowed  the  morning  we  picked  up  Little 
Blue  Flower,  back  at  Pawnee  Rock,  we  was  pickin' 
up  trouble  for  the  rest  of  the  trail.  I  see  it  then. 
You  can  trust  a  nigger  'cause  they  never  no 
'count,  but  you  don't  know  what  you  gettin' 
when  you  trust  an  Indian.  But,  Cla'nden,  that 
Apache  Indian,  Santan,  ain't  goin'  to  trouble  you 
no  more.  When  the  world  ain't  no  fit  place  for 
folks  they  needs  helpin'  out  of  it,  and  I  sees  to  it 

384 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

they  gets  it,  too.  Whoo-ee!"  She  paused  and 
leaned  against  the  crooked  cypress.  Half  turning 
her  face  toward  us,  she  continued  in  a  clear, 
soft  voice: 

"That  man  they  call  Ramero  down  in  Santy 
Fee — I  knowed  him  when  he  was  just  Fred  Ramer 
back  in  the  rice-fields  country.  His  father,  old 
man  Ramer,  tried  to  kill  me  once,  'cause  he  said 
I  knowed  too  much.  I  helped  him  into  kingdom 
come  right  then  and  saved  a  lot  of  misery.  They 
blamed  some  other  folks,  I  guess,  but  they  never 
hunted  me  up  at  all.  Good-by,  Clan 'den,  and 
you,  too,  Felix,  and  Dick  Verra.  I've  knowed 
you  all  these  years,  but  nobody  takes  no  'count 
of  niggers'  knowin's.  Good-by,  Little  Lees,  and 
all  you  boys.  I'll  see  you  again  pretty  soon,  I'm 
goin'  back  to  my  desset  now.  It's  over  yonder 
just  a  little  way.  Jondo — but  you  won't  be  John 
Doe  then.  Whoo-ee!" 

Aunty  Boone  slowly  settled  down  beside  the 
cypress,  with  her  face  toward  her  beloved  ' ' desset," 
and  when  we  went  to  her  a  little  later,  her  eyes, 
still  looking  eastward,  saw  nothing  earthly  any 
more  forever. 

Jondo 's  face  seemed  glorified  as  he  caught  Aunty 
Boone's  last  words,  and  his  voice  was  sweet  and 
clear  as  he  looked  up  at  Eloise  bending  over  him. 

"Thank  God!  It  is  all  made  right  at  last. 
Eloise,  the  charge  of  murder  against  your  father's 
name  would  have  broken  the  heart  of  the  woman 
that  I  always  loved — your  mother.  One  of  us 
had  to  bear  the  shame.  I  took  the  guilt  on  myself 

385 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

for  her  sake — and  for  yours.  I  have  walked  the 
trails  of  my  life  a  nameless  man,  but  I  have  kept 
my  soul  clean  in  God's  sight,  and  I  know  His  name 
will  soon  be  written  on  my  forehead  over  there." 

He  gazed  out  toward  the  glorious  beauty  of  the 
view  beyond  him,  then  closed  his  eyes,  and, 
bravely  as  he  had  lived,  so  bravely  he  went 
forth  on  the  Long  Trail,  leaving  a  name  sweet 
with  the  perfume  of  self-sacrifice  and  love. 

We  did  not  speak  of  him  to  Beverly,  for  our 
boy  had  suddenly  grown  restless,  and  his  blood 
was  threshing  furiously  in  his  veins,  and  he  was 
in  pain,  but  only  briefly. 

Presently  he  said,  "Let  us  be  alone  a  little." 

The  others  drew  away. 

"Lean  down,  Gail.  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing." He  smiled  sweetly  upon  me  as  I  bent 
over  him. 

"I  tried 'to  tell  you  back  on  the  Smoky  Hill,  but 
I'd  promised  not  to.  And  honor  was  something 
to  me  still.  But  I'm  going  pretty  soon.  So  listen ! 
I  loved  Eloise  always — always.  But  she  never 
cared  for  me.  She  was  only  my  good  chum.  I've 
been  too  happy-hearted  all  my  days,  though,  Gail, 
to  make  a  cross  of  anything  that  would  break  me 
down.  Men  differ  so,  you  know,  and  I  never  was 
a  dreamer  like  you.  Turn  me  a  little,  won't  you, 
so  that  I  can  see  that  awful  beauty  down  there." 

I  lifted  his  shoulders  gently  and  placed  him 
where  his  eyes  could  rest  on  the  majestic  scene 
spread  out  before  him. 

"Eloise  loves  you,  but  she  thinks  you  would 
386 


IN   THE    SHADOW 

not  marry  her  because  they  say  her  father  was  a 
murderer.  I  don't  believe  that,  Gail.  I  told  her 
that  you  didn't,  either,  not  one  little  minute.  You 
care  for  her,  I  know,  and  losing  her  will  break  your 
heart.  I  tried  to  tell  you  long  ago,  but  Little  Lees 
made  me  promise  not  to  say  a  word  that  night  at 
Burlingame  when  you  had  gone  away  and  I 
thought  maybe  I  had  a  half-chance  with  her. 
Tell  me  you'll  make  her  happy,  Gail." 

"Oh,  Beverly,  I'll  do  my  best,"  I  murmured, 
softly. 

"Come  closer,  Gail.  Look  at  those  colors  there. 
Is  it  so  far  across,  or  only  seeming  so?  And  see 
the  soft  white  clouds  drop  purple  shadows  down. 
Is  that  the  way  the  trail  runs?  How  beautiful  it 
must  be  farther  on.  Good-by,  old  boy  of  my 
heart's  heart,  and  don't  forget,  however  long  the 
years,  and  wide  away  your  feet  may  go,  to  keep 
the  old  trail  law.  '  Hold  fast. ' ' ' 

We  laid  them  away  in  the  deep  pine  forest — 
Aunty  Boone,  of  strange,  prophetic  vision;  San- 
tan,  the  cruel  Indian;  the  loyal  Hopi  maiden; 
Jondo  and  Beverly.  God  made  them  all  and  in 
His  heaven  they  will  be  rightly  placed. 

Beside  the  canon's  rim,  in  the  soft  twilight 
hour  of  that  October  day,  Eloise  St.  Vrain  and  I 
plighted  our  troth,  till  death  us  do  part — for  just 
a  little  while.  Plighted  it  not  in  happy,  selfish 
affection,  such  as  youth  and  maiden  give,  some- 
times, each  to  each;  but  in  the  deep,  marvelous 
love  of  man  and  woman  pledged  where,  in  sacred 

387 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

moments  on  that  day,  we  had  seen  the  mortal 
put  on  immortality.  To  us  there  could  be  no 
grander,  richer,  lovelier  setting  for  life's  best  and 
holiest  hour  than  here,  where,  upon  things  finite, 
there  rests  the  beneficent  uplifting  beauty  that 
shadows  forth  the  Infinite. 


IV 

REMEMBERING   THE   TRAIL 


XXII 

THE    GOLDEN   WEDDING 

The  heart  that's  never  old!     Oh  the  heart  that's  never  old! — 
Tis  a  vision  of  the  lavender,  the  crimson  and  the  gold 
Of  an  airy,  fairy  morning,  when  the  sky  is  all  ablaze 
With  an  ever-changing  splendor,  driving  back  the  gloom  and  haze! 

'Tis  the  vision  of  an  orchard  in  the  balmy  month  of  May, 
Where  the  birds  are  ever  singing,  and  the  leaves  are  ever  gay; 
Where  the  sun  is  ever  shining  with  a  glory  never  told, 
And  the  trees  are  ever  blooming — for  the  heart  that's  never  old! 

— JAMES  E.  HILKEY. 

r~FHE  summers  and  winters  of  fifty  golden  years 

A    have  brought  to  the  plains  their  balmy  breezes 

and  blazing  heat,  their  soft,  life-giving  showers, 

and    their    fierce,    blizzard    anger.      And    down 

through  these  fifty  years  Eloise  St.  Vrain  and  I 

have  walked  the  love  trails  of  the  plains  together. 

In  the  early  spring  of  this,  our  ' '  golden-wedding  " 

year,  we  sat  on  the  veranda  of  our  suburban  home 

in  Kansas  City,  above  the  picturesque  Cliff  Drive, 

rippling  with  automobiles.     The  same  drive  winds 

in  its  course  somewhere  near  the  old,  rough  road 

that  once  led  from  the  Clarenden  home,  above  the 

26  391 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

valley  of  the  Kaw,  down  to  the  little  city  of  great 
promise — now  fulfilled. 

"Eloise,  youth  may  have  a  charm  that  is  all  its 
own,"  I  said  to  my  wife,  "but  I  wonder  if  it  really 
matches  the  enduring  charm  of  age  when  one 
looks  back  on  busy  years  of  service." 

Eloise  smiled  up  at  me — the  same  gracious  smile 
that  has  lighted  all  my  days  with  her. 

"You  are  a  dreamer  still,  Gail.  But  dreams  do 
so  sweeten  life  and  keep  the  fires  of  romance  for- 
ever burning." 

"When  did  romance  begin  with  you,  Little 
Lees?"  I  asked. 

"I  think  it  was  on  that  day  when  I  came 
bounding  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  San  Miguel 
church,"  Eloise  replied,  "and  saw  you  looking 
like  a  big,  brown  bob-cat,  or  something  else,  that 
might  have  slept  in  the  Hondo  'Royo  all  your  life. 
But  withal  a  boy  so  loyal  to  the  helpless  that  you 
were  willing  to  fight  for  me  against  an  assailant 
bigger  than  yourself.  You  became  my  prince  in 
that  hour,  and  all  my  dreams  since  then  have  been 
of  you.  When  did  romance  begin  with  you,  or 
have  you  forgotten  in  the  busy  years  of  a  life 
swallowed  up  in  mercantile  pursuits?" 

"My  life  may  have  been,  as  you  say,  swallowed 
up  in  building  trade  that  builds  empire,  but  I 
have  never  forgotten  the  things  that  make  it 
fine  to  me,"  I  answered  her.  "Romance  for  me 
began  one  day,  long  ago,  out  on  the  parade- 
ground  at  Fort  Leavenworth.  I've  been  a  Van- 
guard of  the  Plains  since  then,  bull- whacker  for 

392 


THE    GOLDEN   WEDDING 

the  ox-teams  that  hauled  the  commerce  of  the 
West;  cavalryman  in  hard-wearing  Indian  cam- 
paigns that  defended  the  frontier;  and  merchant, 
giving  measure  for  measure  always,  like  that 
grand  man  who  taught  me  the  worth  of  business — 
Esmond  Clarenden." 

"On  the  parade-ground?  How  there?"  Eloise 
asked. 

"It  came  the  day  that  I  first  knew  we  were  to 
go  with  Uncle  Esmond  to  Santa  Fe — for  you. 
We  didn't  know  that  it  was  for  you  then.  I 
think  I  was  born  again  that  day  into  a  daring 
plainsman,  who  had  been  a  sort  of  baby-boy 
before.  I  sat  with  Mat  and  Beverly  on  the  edge 
of  the  parade-ground,  when  I  looked  up  to  see, 
with  a  boy's  day-dreaming  eyes,  somewhere  this 
side  of  misty  mountain  peaks,  a  vision  of  a  cloud 
of  golden  hair  about  a  sweet  child  face,  with  dark 
eyes  looking  into  mine.  That  vision  stayed  with 
me  until,  one  morning,  fifty  years  ago,  on  the 
rim  of  the  Grand  Canon — you  looked  into  my 
eyes  again  and  I  knew  my  life  dream  had  come 
true." 

I  rose  and,  bending  over  my  wife's  cloud  of 
beautiful  silvery  hair,  I  kissed  her  gently  on  each 
fair  cheek. 

' '  Gail,  why  not  take  the  old  trail  for  our  golden- 
wedding  anniversary — a  long  journey,  clear  to  the 
mountains?"  Eloise  suggested. 

"There  is  no  trail  now;  only  its  ghost  haunting 
the  way,"  I  replied,  "but,  Little  Lees,  I  don't 
believe  that  we  who  look  back  on  so  many  happy 

393 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

years,  after  the  stormy  ones  of  early  life,  could 
find  any  other  path  half  so  dear  to  us  as  that  long 
path  we  knew  in  childhood  and  early  youth,  and 
the  one  we  followed  together  in  our  first  years  of 
mature  womanhood  and  manhood." 

And  so  we  did  not  celebrate  one  October  day 
with  all  of  our  children  and  grandchildren  and 
friends  coming  to  offer  us  gold  coins,  gold-headed 
canes — which  I  do  not  use — and  gold-rimmed 
glasses  for  eyes  that  see  farther  and  clearer  than 
my  spectacled  grandsons  at  the  university  can 
see  to-day.  We  made  a  golden  summer  of  the 
thing  and  followed  where,  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp 
of  memory,  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  of  threescore  years 
ago  reached  from  the  raw  frontier  at  Indepen- 
dence on  to  the  Missouri  bluffs,  clear  to  the  sunny 
valley  of  the  Holy  Faith. 

Only  a  headstone  at  long  intervals  shows  the 
way  now — a  stone  that  well  might  read: 

Here  ran  the  old  Santa  F6  Trail.  This  stone,  set  here,  is 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  Vanguards  of  the  Plains  who 
followed  it. 

They  stand,  these  "markers"  now,  on  hilltops 
and  in  deep  valleys;  by  country  crossroads  and 
where  main  streets  cut  each  other  in  the  towns 
and  villages.  They  ornament  the  city  parks,  they 
show  where  splendid  concrete  bridges,  re-enforced 
with  structural  steel,  span  streams  that  once  the 
ox- teams  doubled  and  trebled  strength  to  ford. 
They  gleam  where  corn  grows  tall  and  black  on 

394 


THE    GOLDEN   WEDDING 

fertile  prairies;  where  seas  of  wheat  have  flooded 
barren,  burning  plains,  and  perfumey  alfalfa  sweet- 
ens the  air  above  what  was  once  grassless  deso- 
lation. They  whisper  of  a  day  gone  by  among 
the  silent  mountains,  where  tunnels  let  the  iron 
trail  run  easily  under  the  old  trail's  dizzy  path. 
They  nestle  in  the  shadows  of  gray-green  cliffs 
and  by  red  mesa  heights;  until  the  last  monu- 
ment, sacred  to  the  memory  of  a  day  forgotten, 
speaks  at  the  corner  of  the  old  Plaza  in  the  heart 
of  Santa  Fe. 

That  was  a  journey  long  to  be  remembered — 
the  long,  golden-wedding  journey  of  Gail  Claren- 
den  with  his  wife,  Eloise  St.  Vrain,  and  all  of  it 
was  sweet  with  memories  of  other  days.  Not  in 
peril  and  privation  and  uncertainty  did  we  follow 
the  trail  now.  The  Pullman  has  replaced  the 
Conestoga  wagon,  dainty  viands  the  coarse  food 
smoke-blackened  over  camp-fires,  and  never  fear 
of  Kiowa  nor  Comanche  broke  our  slumber.  The 
long  shriek  that  cuts  the  air  of  dawn  was  not  from 
wild  marauders  on  a  daybreak  raid  down  lonely 
canons,  but  from  the  throats  of  splendid,  steel- 
wrought  engines  swinging  forth  upon  their  solid, 
certain  course. 

The  prairies  still  lap  up  to  the  edges  of  the 
little  town  of  Burlingame,  whose  main  street  is 
still  the  old  trail's  path.  The  well  has  long  since 
disappeared  from  the  center  of  the  place.  Where 
once  the  thirsty  gathered  here  to  drink,  there 
stands  a  monument  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the 
old  trail  days.  And  sacred,  too,  to  the  memory 

395 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

of  the  one  far-visioned  woman,  Fannie  Geiger 
Thompson,  who  first  conceived  the  thought  of 
marking  for  the  coming  generations  the  course  of 
commerce  that  built  up  the  West  in  years  gone  by. 

We  never  lived  in  Burlingame,  where  once — a 
heart-hungry  little  boy — I  longed  to  have  a  home. 
But  the  Krane  children  and  their  children's  chil- 
dren still  make  it  an  abiding-place  for  us. 

To  Council  Grove,  and  old  Pawnee  Rock,  the 
Cimarron  Crossing  of  the  Arkansas  River,  the 
open  plain  about  the  site  of  old  Fort  Bent — where 
only  ghosts  of  walls  and  the  court  remain,  and  on 
to  Santa  Fe,  dreamy  and  picturesque — hoary  with 
age,  and  sweet  with  sacred  memories,  we  wan- 
dered on  our  golden-wedding  trail. 

The  name  of  Narveo  in  New  Mexico  still  stands 
for  gentleman.  The  old  church  of  San  Miguel  still 
shelters  troubled  hearts,  and  in  the  San  Christobal 
valley  the  Pictured  Rocks  still  build  up  a  rude 
stair  for  feet  that  still  may  need  the  sanctuary 
rim  of  safety  set  about  them.  Along  the  length 
of  the  old  trail  a  marvelous  fifty  years  have  en- 
riched a  history  whose  epic  days  record  the  deeds 
of  vanguards,  who  foreran  and  builded  for  the 
softer  days  of  golden- wedding  years. 

The  last  lap  of  all  that  wondrous  journey  bore 
us  in  ease  and  comfort  beyond  the  desert — the 
Africa  of  Aunty  Boone's  weird  fancy — to  the 
Grand  Canon  of  the  Colorado.  Here,  as  of  old, 
the  riven  crust,  in  its  eternal  silence,  and  sublimity, 
and  beauty  indescribable,  calmly,  year  by  year, 
reveals  its  mighty  purpose: 

396 


THE    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

To  quarry  the  heart  of  earth, 

Till,  in  the  rock's  red  rise, 
Its  age  and  birth,  through  an  awful  girth 
Of  strata,  should  show  the  wonder-worth 

Of  patience  to  all  eyes. 

Amid  luxurious  surroundings  we  lived  the  Oc- 
tober days  upon  the  canon's  rim,  where,  half  a 
(  century  ago,  we  had  gone  in  hardship  and  looked 
on  tragedy.  We  crept  down  all  the  dizzy  lengths 
to  the  very  heart  of  it,  and  ate  and  slept  in  easy 
comfort,  and  gazed  upward  at  the  sky-cleaving 
edges  thousands  of  feet  above  us ;  we  stood  beside 
the  raging  Colorado  River,  which  no  man  had 
explored  when  we  first  looked  upon  it  here.  In 
the  serene  hours  of  our  sunset  years  we  went  back 
in  memory  over  the  long  way  our  feet  had  come. 
Life  is  easy  for  us  now,  made  so  by  all  the  splendid, 
simple  forces  of  those  who,  in  justice,  honesty, 
and  broad  human  sympathy  build  enduring  em- 
pire. Not  empire  gained  by  bomb  and  liquid 
fire,  defended  by  sharp  entanglement  and  cross- 
trenched  to  shut  out  enemies;  but  empire  builded 
on  the  commerce  of  the  land,  value  for  value; 
empire  of  bridged  rivers,  quick  transportation  on 
steel-marked  trails  that  girdle  harvest  fields  and 
fruitful  pastures;  empire  of  homes  and  schools 
and  sacred  shrines. 

Our  fifty  golden  years  have  seen  such  empire 
rise  and  grow  before  our  eyes,  made  great  by 
thrift  and  business  sense,  swayed  by  the  Golden 
Rule.  An  empire  rich  in  love  and  sweet  romance 

397 


VANGUARDS    OF   THE    PLAINS 

and  thrilling  deeds  of  courage  and  self-sacrifice. 
Glad  am  I  to  have  been  a  vanguard  of  its  trails 
upon  the  Kansas  prairies  and  the  far  Western 
plains,  sure  now,  as  always  down  the  years,  that 
its  old  law  is  still  a  righteous  one:  To  that  which 
is  good — 

"HOLD  FAST." 


THE   END 


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Adventures  of  Gerard.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Adventures  of  a  Modest  Man.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale,  The.    By  Franlc  L.  Packard. 

After  House,  The.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Alisa  Paige.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Alton  of  Somasco.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

A  Man's  Man.     By  Ian  Hay. 

Amateur  Gentleman,  The.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Andrew  The  Glad.    By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Ann  Boyd.  By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Anna  the  Adventuress.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Another  Man's  Shoes.     By  Victor  Bridges. 

Ariadne  of  Allan  Water.     By  Sidney  McCall. 

Armchair  at  the  Inn,  The.    By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 

Around   Old   Chester.      By   Margaret   Deland. 

Arhalie.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Auction  Block,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Aunt  Jane.     By  Jeanette   Lee. 

Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky.    By  Eliza  C.  Hall. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.    By  Margaret  Deland. 

Bambi.    By  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke. 

Bandbox,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Barbara  of  the  Snows.     By  Harry    Irving  Green. 

Bar  20.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar  20  Days.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Barrier,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

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Beechy.    By  Bettina  Von  Hutten. 

Bella  Donna.     By  Robert  Hichens. 

Beloved  Vagabond,  The.     By  Wm.  J.  Locke. 

Beltane  the  Smith.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Ben  Blair.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Betrayal,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Better  Man,  The.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady, 

Beulah.     (111.  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

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Bob  Hampton  of  Placer.     By   Randall  Parrisli. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.     By  Alfred  Ollivan-t. 

Britton  of  the  Seventh.     By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 

Broad  Highway,  The.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Bronze  Bell,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Bronze  Eagle,  The.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Buck  Peters,  Ranchman.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Business  of  Life,  The.     By  Robert  W.   Chambers. 

By  Right  of  Purchase.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Cabbages  and  Kings.     By  O.  Henry. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright 

Cape  Cod  Stories.     By  Toseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Eri.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Warren's  Wards.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cardigan.      By   Robert   W.   Chambers. 

Carpet  From  Bagdad,  The.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Cease  Firing.     By  Mary  Johnson. 

Chain  of  Evidence,  A.     By  Carolyn  Wells. 

Chief  Legatee,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Cleek  of  Scotland  Yard.     By  T.  W.  Hanshew. 

Clipped  Wings.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 

Coast  of  Adventure,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Colonial  Free  Lance,  A.     By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Coming  of  Cassidy,  The    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Coming  of  the  Law,  The.    By  Chas.  A.  Seltzer. 

Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.    By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Conspirators,  The.     By  Robt.  W.  Chambers. 

Counsel  for  the  Defense.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Court  of  Inquiry,  A.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond 

Crime  Doctor,  The.    By  E.  W.  Hornung 

Crimson  Gardenia,  The,  and  Other  Tales  of  Adventure.    BT 

Rex  Beach. 

Cross  Currents.    By  Eleanor  H.  Porter. 
Cry  in  the  Wilderness,  A.     By  Mary  E.  Waller. 
Cynthia  of  the  Minute.    By  Louis  Jos.  Vance. 

Dark  Hollow,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
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Day  of  the  Dog,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
Depot  Master,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Desired  Woman,  The.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Destroying  Angel,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Dixie  Hart.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 
Double  Traitor,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Drusilla  With  a  Million.    By  Elizabeth  Cooper. 

Eagle  of  the  Empire,  The.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady 

El  Dorado.    By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Elusive  Isabel.     By  Jacques  Futrelle. 

Empty  Pockets.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 

Enchanted  Hat,  The.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Eye  of  Dread,  The.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Eyes  of  the  World,  The.   By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Felix  O'Day.     By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 

50-40  or  Fight.    By  Emerson  Hough. 

Fighting  Chance,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Financier,  The.    By  Theodore  Dreiser. 

Flamsted  Quarries.     By  Mary  E.  Waller. 

Flying  Mercury,  The.    By  Eleanor  M.  Ingram. 

For  a  Maiden  Brave.    By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss. 

Four  Million,  The.    By  O.  Henry. 

Four  Pool's  Mystery,  The.    By  Jean  Webster. 

Fruitful  Vine,  The.    By  Robert  Hichens. 

Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford.    By  George  Randolph  Chester. 

Gilbert  Neal.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Girl  From  His  Town,  The.     By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Girl  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  A.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Girl  Who  Lived  in  the  Woods,  The.     By  Marjorie  Benton 

Cook. 

Girl  Who  Won,  The.    By  Beth  Ellis. 
Glory  of  Clementina,  The.    By  Wm.  J.  Locke. 
Glory  of  the  Conquered,  The.    By  Susan  Glaspell. 
God's  Country  and  the  Woman.    By  James  Oliver  CurwoodL 
God's  Good  Man.     By  Marie  Corelli. 
Going  Some.    By  Rex  Beach. 
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Golden  Web,  The.     By  Anthony  Partridge. 

Gordon  Craig.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Greyfriars  Bobby.     By  Eleanor  Atkinson. 

Guests  of  Hercules,  The.    By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Halcyone.     By  Elinor  Glyn. 

Happy  Island  (Sequel  to  Uncle  William).  By  Jeannette  Lee. 

Havoc.      By   E.   Phillips   Oppenheim. 

Heart  of  Philura,  The.    By  Florence  Kingsley. 

Heart  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  John  Fox,  Jr. 

Heart  of  the  Sunset.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Heart  of  Thunder  Mountain,  The.    By  Elf  rid  A.  Bingham. 

Heather-Moon,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson  . 

Her  Weight  in  Gold.    By  Geo.  B.  McCutcheon. 

Hidden  Children,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Hoosier  Volunteer,  The.    By  Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles. 

Hopalong  Cassidy.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

How  Leslie  Loved.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker.    By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 

Husbands  of  Edith,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon 

I  Conquered.     By  Harold  Titus. 

Illustrious  Prince,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Idols.    By  William  J.  Locke. 

Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Inez.    (111.  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

In  Her  Own  Right.     By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Initials  Only.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Inner  Law,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Innocent.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.     By  Sax  Rohrii  r. 

In  the  Brooding  Wild.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Intrigues,  The.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Iron  Trail,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Iron  Woman,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

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Island  of  Surprise,  The.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 

aponette.     Ry  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

can  of  the  Lazy  A.    By  B.  M.  Bower, 
^eanne  of  the  Marshes.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Jennie  Gerhardt.    By  Theodore  Dreiser. 
~oyful  Heatherby.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

ude  the  Obscure.    By  Thomas  Hardy. 
Judgment  House,,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Keith  of  the  Border.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Kent  Knowles:  Quahaug.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

King  Spruce.     By  Holman  Day. 

Kingdom  of  Earth,  The.    By  Anthony  Partridge. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Lady  and  the  Pirate,  The.    By  Emerson  Hough. 

Lady  Merton,  Colonist.     By  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward. 

Landloper,  The.    By  Holman  Day. 

Land  of  Long  Ago,  The.    By  Eliza  Calvert  Hall. 

Last  Try,  The.    By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Last  Shot,  The.    By  Frederick  N.  Palmer. 

Last  Trail,  The.    By  Zane  Grey. 

Laughing  Cavalier,  The.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Law  Breakers,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Lighted  Way,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Lighting  Conductor  Discovers  America,  The.     By  C.  N.  & 

A.  N.  Williamson. 
Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 

Little  Brown  Jug  at  Kildare,  The.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Long  Roll,  The.    By  Mary  Johnson. 
Lonesome  Land.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Lord  Loveland  Discovers  America.     By   C.   N.  and  A.  M 

Williamson. 

Lost  Ambassador.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Prince,  The.    By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lost  Road,  The.    By  Richard  Harding 
Love  Under  Fire.    By  Randall  Parrish. 


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Maids  of  Paradise,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Maid  of  the  Whispering  Hills,  The.     By  Vingie  E.  Roe. 

Making  of  Bobby  Burnit,  The.    By  Randolph  Chester. 

Making  Money.  By  Owen  Johnson. 

Mam'  Linda.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Man  Outside,  The.    By  Wyndham  Martyn. 

Man  Trail,  The.     By  Henry  Oyen. 

Marriage.     By  H.  G.  Wells. 

Marriage  of  Theodora,  The.    By  Mollie  Elliott  Seawell. 

Mary  Moreland.    By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Max.    By  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston. 

Maxwell  Mystery,  The.    By  Caroline  Wells. 

Mediator,  The.    By  Roy  Norton. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Mischief  Maker,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Gibbie  Gault.    By  Kate  Langley  Bosher. 

Miss  Philura's  Wedding  Gown.    By  Florence  Morse  KJ<ig«jlev, 

Molly  McDonald.  By  Randall  Parrish. 

Money  Master,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Money  Moon.  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Motor  Maid,  The.    By  C.  N  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Moth,  The.    By  William  Dana  Orcutt. 

Mountain  Girl,  The.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Mr.  Bingle.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenh^ivn. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratf  s  Patients.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mrs.  Balfame.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Demon  Motor  Boat.    By  George  Fitch. 

My  Friend  the  Chauffeur.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

My  Lady  Caprice.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

My  Lady  of  Doubt.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  North,    By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 
Net,  The.    By  Rex  Beach, 


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Night  Riders,  The.    By  Ridgweil  Cullum. 
Night  Watches.    By  W.  VV.  Jacobs. 
Nobody.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Once  Upon  a  Time.    By  Richard  Harding  Davis. 
One  Braver  Thing.     By  Richard  Dehan. 
One  Way  Trail,  The.    By  Ridgweil  Cullum. 
Otherwise  Phyllis.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 

Pardners.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrott  &  Co.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passionate  Friends,  The.    By  H.  G.  Wells. 

Patrol  of  the  Sun  Dance  Trail,  The.     By  Ralph  Connor, 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.    By  Hiram  W.  Hayes. 

Perch  of  the  Devil.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Peter  Ruff.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

People's  Man,  A.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Phillip  Steele.    By  James  Oliver  Cunvood. 

Pidgin  Island.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Place  of  Honeymoon,  The.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Plunderer,  The.     By  Roy  Norton. 

Pole  Baker.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Pool  of  Flame,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Port  cf  Adventure,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Postmaster,  The.     By  Joseph   C.  Lincoln. 

Power  and  the  Glory,  The.    By  Grace  McGowan  Cooke. 

Prairie  "Wife,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Price  of  Love,  The.    By  Arnold  Bennett. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Pri.ice  of  Sinners.    By  A.  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Princjs  Passes,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Princess  Virginia,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  N.  Williamson. 

Promise,  The.     By  J.  B.  Hendryx. 

Purple  Parasol,  The.    By  Geo.  B.  McCutcheon. 

Ranch  at  the  Wolverine,  The.     By  B.  M    Bower. 
Ranching  for  Sylvia.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Real  Man,  The.     By  Francis  Lynde. 
Reason  Why,  The.   By  Elinor  Glyn. 


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Red  Cross  Girl,  The.    By  Richard  Harding  Davis. 

Red  Mist,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Redemption  of  Kenneth  Gait,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Red  Lane,  The.    By  Holman  Day. 

Red  Mouse.  The.    By  Wm.  Hamilton  Osborne. 

Red  Pepper  Burns.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.    By  Anne  Warner. 

Return  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Riddle  of  Night,  The.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Rim  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Ada  Woodruff  Anderson. 

Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine,  The.    By  J.  C.  Lincoln. 

Road  to  Providence,  The.    By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Robinetta.    By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 

Rocks  of  Valpre,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Rogue  by  Compulsion,  A.    By  Victor  Bridges. 

Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.   By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rose  of  the  World.    By  Agnes  and  Egerton  Castle. 

Rose  of  Old  Harpeth,  The.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Routledge  Rides  Alone.    By  Will  L.  Comfort. 

St.  Elmo.    (111.  Ed.)    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 
Salamander,  The.    By  Owen  Johnson. 
Scientific  Sprague.    By  Francis  Lynde. 
Second  Violin,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Secret  of  the  Reef,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Secret  History.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Self- Raised.     (111.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 
Septimus.     By  William  J.  Locke. 
Set  in  Silver.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Seven  Darlings,  The.     By  Gouverneur  Morris. 
Shea  of  the  Irish  Brigade.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright 
Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Sign  at  Six,  The.     By  Stewart  Edw.  White. 
Silver  Horde,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 
Simon  the  Jester.    By  William  J.  Locke. 
Siren  of  the  Snows,  A.    By  Stanley  Shaw. 
Sir  Richard  Calmady.    By  Lucas  Malet 
Sixty-First  Second,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson^ 
Slim  Princess,  The.    By  George  Ade. 


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